Sense
by pointlesspostits
Summary: When Emma Stoneheart leaves her home in Glasgow to find her father in London she has no idea where it will lead her - or what horrors she will face. Can she escape the clutches of James Moriarty and defeat the demons that cloud her mind? - Reichenbach AU and beyond - sort of parent!lock - Rated M for language, violence and sex references in later chapters
1. Chapter 1 - Rabbit Heart

**this fic marks my return to fanfic after 2 years of pretending to be cooler than i actually am. ive had this idea since reichenbach was first aired and its been slowly growing and blossoming in my mind ever since. i'll try very hard not to create one of those cliche 'sherlock's daughter' fics, i really want this to work out.**

* * *

**Chapter 1 - Rabbit Heart**

"Did you have to buy that one?" Casey Stoneheart sighed and threw the newspaper she had picked up back down onto the old coffee table where it had previously resided. The headline emblazoned on the front page read '_BOFFIN SHERLOCK SOLVES ANOTHER'_, above a large photograph of the aforementioned detective in a deerstalker.

"Yes. He's interesting." Emma retorted, raising her eyebrows slightly before returning to her book, muttering "you should know better than others, mother."

"Shut up." Casey glared at her daughter, the glow from the television lighting her face in such a way that it aged her ten years.

"Oh, come on, it's not my fault you got drunk, lost a bet and fucked him is it? Stop acting like it is."

"Emma! Don't swear in front of your brother!" Daniel Stoneheart took things like _words_ much too seriously for Emma's liking, and it wasn't as if Emma's half brother, Andy, didn't hear it all the time at school.

"It's fine, dad, I hear it all the time at school." Andy piped up from where he was lying on the floor, completing a jigsaw – a large picture of the cast of _Harry Potter _emerging tediously slowly from the pile of pieces next to him.

"Well, as long as you don't use words like that..." Daniel said bitterly, shooting a displeased look at Emma.

"He does." Emma didn't even look up from her book.

"No I don't!" Andy's voice went exceptionally high, the number one sign that –

"He's lying. When he goes squeaky he's lying." Emma flicked over a page, "I'm sure if I looked up he'd be picking at his fingers; he does that when he lies too." Her eyes flashed up for a second, "Oh look, I was right."

"Look," Casey switched off the television with a violent flick of the remote, and shifted in the chair to face Emma, "This needs to stop; _you _need to stop. This is exactly what _he _used to do! I won't have you turning into a weirdo like him!"

"I'd rather be weird than _normal._" Emma slammed her book shut and turned to glare at her mother, "You're all so _boring_, everyone's so boring!"

"Fine! If you think he's so interesting why don't you go join him and his boyfriend solving murders? And when you get yourself killed don't expect me to be sorry." Casey had stood up now, and looked down on Emma with a look of disgust in her eyes.

"Maybe I will." Emma raised an eyebrow, her words calm, quiet and deadly serious. Casey's face dropped, her eyes becoming large and sad.

"What?" Her word was short, and tugged at the end by emotion.

"Maybe I will leave. Maybe I'll go and find my dad, and _maybe_ he'll appreciate me a little more than you have for the past fifteen years." Emma tapped the cover of her book once with her long, pale fingers, then stood and left the room without another word. She had got up the stairs and into her room before her mother even made a noise. Emma shut the door to block out the sound of Casey's sobbing.

She opened the laptop sat between two stacks of books on her desk – the webpage open was the blog of John Watson – before collapsing into a chair and facing the screen. She hunted around the website for a good half an hour until she found an address for enquiries. 221B Baker Street, London – Great.

"Couldn't have lived further away, could you?" she muttered. A next day train ticket from Glasgow to London would cost a bomb. After some searching, she booked her journey; it was a good thing Emma had her mother's credit card details memorised.

* * *

"Aren't you a bit young to be in London on your own?"

"Are your employers aware that you're addicted to cocaine?" Emma asked the taxi driver, smiling. He looked shocked, then his expression returned to normal, glazed over and disinterested,

"Where 'you going then, love?"

"Baker Street, thanks."

The driver didn't speak again after that, thankfully, Emma found him incredibly boring. She placed the earphones which had been hanging from the neck of her hoodie back into her ears and resumed her music.

'_I must become a lion hearted girl, ready for a fight.'_

Emma tapped her foot along with the beat of Florence and the Machine as she watched the tall, grey buildings whip past the taxi windows until they began to slow.

"We're here, love." Emma wished the taxi driver wouldn't call her that, passed him a twenty pound note and hauled her suitcase and backpack out, slinging the latter over one shoulder as the cab pulled away. She found 221B a little way down the street and banged the knocker three times, leaving it straight on the door. A few moments later a woman opened the door and peeked her head around. Emma pulled out one earphone and put on her best (fake) smile,

"Hi."

"Oh, hello, dear. Are you here to see Sherlock?"

"Yeah, actually, would you mind letting me in? Don't let me disturb your cream tea."

The woman's smile drooped slightly, "How did you -?"

"You have scone crumbs on your blouse and a smudge of jam on your forefinger; obvious really."

The woman raised her eyebrows, "Well, you certainly don't seem to need him, but Sherlock's upstairs." She opened the door fully and stepped out of Emma's way.

"Thanks," Emma smiled, then set off up the stairs, the sound of an argument drifting from the closed door at the top,

"It's an ear hat, John!" There was a pause, "What do you mean, 'more careful'?"

"I _mean_," Said a calmer, second voice, "this isn't a deerstalker anymore, it's a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that you're not exactly a private detective anymore. You're _this far _from famous!"

"It'll pass."

"It better pass. The press _will _turn, Sherlock, they always turn, and they'll turn on you."

Another pause,

"It really bothers you?"

"What?"

"What people say?"

"Yes."

"About me? I don't understand, why would it upset _you_?"

Emma knocked on the door, having eavesdropped enough to satisfy herself. The voices started again,

"John, door."

"Yeah, I know."

Emma pulled the other earphone out and let it hang from the neck of her hoodie as the door opened. A relatively short man, maybe 3 inches shorter than Emma, with grey-blonde hair and an obvious military background stood looking at her, a look of confusion spread across his face.

"Um, can I help you?" He asked.

"Ah, Doctor Watson I presume, love the blog." Emma took his hand and shook it, flashing him a smile as she pushed past him into the small, shabby flat. She didn't take in much of her surroundings, just the skull on the mantle, a violin sitting near the window and the person she had been waiting fifteen years to meet.

"Sherlock Holmes." She smirked at him, dropping both of her bags on the floor.

"Oh God," John moaned, "if you're some sort of weird fangirl or something -"

"Shut up, John. No, she's something different..." Sherlock suddenly sat forwards in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Emma had the horrible that she was being x-rayed, "You've come from Scotland, but you're not Scottish."

"Yes, but that was obvious." Emma raised her eyebrows at him, "I had higher hopes for you."

"Was it?" John asked; he looked even more confused than before.

"Train ticket sticking deliberately out of my pocket so that where I departed from was clearly visible for anyone who happened to look. Obvious English accent. Easy."

"You're not looking for help, that's for sure, you wouldn't need it, and no one would travel that for for a case, which means..." Sherlock paused, almost glaring at Emma, "That you're -"

"Ever heard of a woman called Casey Williams?" Emma interrupted, "Sorry, I got bored."

Sherlock thought for a moment, then swallowed hard, "Oh God." he said bitterly.

"Yep," Emma took a step towards him, holding out her hand to be shaken, "My name is Emma, Emma Stoneheart, and you're right. I'm not here for your help, I don't have a case that needs solving or a dog that's lost; I'm here because I want to meet my father."

* * *

**reviews would be appreciated, and ill try and upload at least once every two weeks.**


	2. Chapter 2 - No Hope

**wow i wrote this fast - dont expect updates this quickly for every chapter, im just very excited to have finally started this fic. so yeah, this chapter follows on directly from the last, then goes on to start to introduce the reichenbach storyline.**

* * *

**Chapter 2 – No Hope**

There was a long, sticky silence. Emma watched Sherlock intently, but his expression after having heard her words remained the same.

"Um, no," John said suddenly, his voice tinged with irritation, "not following. Fill me in please?"

"Emma, this is Doctor John H Watson, my good friend and flatmate. John, this is Emma Stoneheart my... offspring." The last word was spoken with so much distaste that Emma was rather taken aback by Sherlock's introduction.

"Wait, Sherlock. You have a daughter?"

"Yes, apparently; didn't really know until a few moments ago."

"And you're just going to accept it like that? She could be scamming you, or – or something!"

"With that much resemblance? I doubt it John."

It was true; looking at Sherlock was, to Emma, like looking in a mirror. Admittedly, a mirror which altered gender, hair length and height, but a mirror all the same. They shared the same pale skin, icy blue-grey eyes and dark hair, and the same constantly bored tone.

"OK, but _really_, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John. There is, however, a more pressing problem at hand," Sherlock pointed at the bags at Emma's feet, "Suitcase?"

Emma shrugged, "Got bored of having the same argument every night, figured you might appreciate my genius more."

"So, wait a minute," John turned to face Sherlock, "You can't be considering this?"

"Why not? Something to scathe of the boredom for a while, it might be fun. There's a store room upstairs, we'll get Mrs Hudson to clear it for her," A small smile appeared on the consulting detective's lips, "And there's the delightful incentive of irritating Casey Williams – I never liked her."

"Then why'd you -?"

"Oh please, John, we were drunk and she lost a bet."

"It was the only way he was ever going to get laid, wasn't it?" Emma smirked.

"Hmm," Sherlock glared at her.

"Just quoting my mother."

* * *

The next few days were worse than Emma had imagined. She was enrolled at the local secondary school almost immediately, despite her many, _many _protests ("I ran away to _avoid _things like school for God's sake!"), and any time she spent at 221B was spent mostly in silence. She may have been boring, but at least Emma's mother had actually made an effort to speak to her. To top it all off, she kept finding body parts in the fridge and, on one particularly bad occasion, in her bedroom.

Emma had been organising the bookshelf in her new room for half an hour undisturbed, arranging the books which had been in three knee high piles in the corner of the room onto the shelves alphabetically by author, then chronologically by the time of publishing, until she moved one particularly large volume to reveal a jam jar nestled in the space between the pile and the wall. She picked it up and inspected the contents through the glass,

"OK, those are eyes..." She muttered, before dropping the jar as quickly as possible. Eyes freaked Emma out.

_They're staring at me_, she thought.

"Stop that." Emma said to the eyes. The eyes stared back.

She moved over to her suitcase and flipped it open, pulling out a t-shirt which she threw over the jar. She scooped up the heap of t-shirt and jam jar, then carried it at arm's length down the stairs and into the living room. Presenting them to Sherlock, Emma cleared her throat.

"Fridge." Sherlock said bluntly, without looking up from the microscope he was squinting into.

"They're _eyes_?"

"Yes. Fridge."

Emma shrugged and carried the jar through to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

"Are there always toes in the cheese drawer?" She called to Sherlock whilst slipping the jar next to the jam in the refrigerator door (jam on the left, eyes on the right; she didn't want to get that mixed up in the morning).

"No, sometimes there are fingers." John smiled at her, placing a mug in the sink. Emma hadn't noticed him enter the room behind her, but that was probably because she was focusing on not dropping eyes all over her socks. She pulled the t-shirt from over the jar with a flourish, much like a magician, then shut the fridge door.

"Ah, OK then." She folded the t-shirt and placed it on the kitchen table, then gave John a half-hearted smile.

"It doesn't bother you? His experiments?" John asked, pointing vaguely at the fridge she had just closed, a puzzled look crossing his features. Emma had noticed that his face looked like that a lot over the past few days.

"Why would they? I just don't like eyes, I'm fine with everything else." Emma thought for a moment, and then said, much louder than before, "As long as he doesn't leave them in my room!"

"You're as bad as John!" Came the reply from the living room.

"At least I'm not a child." Emma muttered, raising her eyebrows; John chuckled.

The two were silent for a moment. John was watching her as if he was trying to solve a puzzle.

"You're not at all what I expected." He broke the silence.

"What do you mean?"

"You seem quite normal. I expected Sherlock's daughter to be more..."

"Like him?" Emma questioned, "I don't even know what he's like."

John paused, "Well... He's a bit of a tit really, but he's beautifully intelligent."

Emma snorted, "Gay."

"What? I am _not _gay." John glared at her. Emma raised her eyebrows, picked up her t-shirt from the table and set off out of the kitchen,

"Sure you're not."

* * *

Emma tapped her foot along to the beat of the song on her iPod as she consumed the words of the book she was reading. It was now early afternoon, but Sherlock was still sat in front of his microscope, though he had moved from the living room to the kitchen, and had hanged someone from the light fitting. Admittedly, a plastic someone, but Emma expected they had had it coming anyway.

_'There's no hope, and it's time to come of age / I think it's a problem, does it ever go away?'_

The Vaccines blared in her ears, blocking out the room around her until one earphone was tugged out by John, who poked her in the knee, indicated to the dummy and asked

"So, did he just talk to him for a really long time?" He was grinning, obviously proud of his joke. Emma shrugged and paused her music, sensing a conversation was about to take place as John went to sit in his armchair, opening a newspaper.

"What, oh," Sherlock glanced up at the doctor briefly, then went back to his microscope, "Henry Fishgard never committed suicide," He slammed the book next to him on the table shut, causing dust to erupt from its pages, "Bow-Street Runners... missed everything."

"They were a vigilante police force from the 1800s weren't they?" Emma put her own book down so as to join the conversation from where she sat on the sofa, "that 'case' you said you were working on must be over 200 years old."

Sherlock looked up at her "What an esteemed deduction, I can see you will go far in the line of detective work."

"No need to be sarcastic, Sherlock." Emma raised her eyebrows at him.

"Pressing case, is it?" John interrupted, shooting Sherlock a warning look.

"They're all pressing until they're solved..."

The room fell into silence again as they each fell back into their own business, Emma again becoming consumed in the book in front of her, until Sherlock's phone went off, half an hour later.

No one moved to check it, which obviously irritated John for some reason as he folded up his paper noisily and muttered, "I'll get it, shall I?"

Emma watched him go to pick up Sherlock's phone out of the corner of her eye, only putting her book back down when John nudged the detective,

"Look at this."

Sherlock took the device and scanned the screen quickly, then stood up.

"Emma, get your coat."

* * *

**yay ok i will have the next chapter up as soon as possible. thank you for reviewing and following and that.**

**also all of the chapters are named after the songs that appear in them, and the story is named after the tom odell song of the same name for reasons which will come to light post-reichenbach**


	3. Chapter 3 - Fluorescent Adolescent

**A/N - oops its been more than a week um sorry i guess but this chapters a little bit longer so forgive me?**

* * *

**Chapter 3 – Fluorescent Adolescent **

'_GET SHERLOCK'_

The detective John had introduced as Lestrade handed Sherlock a phone, on which an image of a man about to smash the glass case that held the Crown Jewels could be seen. Emma caught a passing glance of the words smeared on the glass, the O a menacing smiley face, and looked to Sherlock for some sort of explanation.

"Security systems were down here at the Tower, and at the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison. No idea how he did it, must've been a distraction. Thing is," Lestrade took the phone back from Sherlock, who took his own from his pocket, "when we got here he was just waiting for us, he made no attempt to leave with the Jewels."

"Of course he didn't, he's done this to get my attention," Sherlock waved off Lestrade's remarks, "I'd have thought that was obvious."

"But why; what does he want?" John asked, "He never tells us straight, does he?"

"Wait," Emma spoke now, "You've seen this guy before?"

They all turned to look at her as if they had forgotten she was there. Sherlock raised his eyebrows,

"Yes." He said, as if she should have known already.

"OK, but who is he?"

Sherlock tutted.

"Who _is _he?" Emma said, a little louder.

"James Moriarty is the most dangerous and most influential man in the criminal underworld of Britain – possibly the whole world, I'm not sure, I've only met him once." Sherlock shrugged off the end of his statement.

"That still doesn't tell me –"

"He's the bad guy." Sherlock interrupted impatiently.

"Fine, thank you. Jesus Christ."

Lestrade's eyes flicked between the two of them,

"You didn't say, Sherlock, who is this?" He asked, pointing vaguely toward the girl, who raised her eyebrows and folded her arms across her chest.

Sherlock said nothing, and instead looked to John, who sighed loudly.

"That's Emma; she's his daughter." He said irritably.

"Daughter?" Lestrade laughed, "Are you kidding? I mean, I was expecting something ridiculous but I wasn't expecting that."

"Yes, thank you, Inspector, shall we get back to the _case_?" Sherlock tutted bitterly, tucking his phone into his coat pocket.

"What case? We've got Moriarty – he's in the car over there."

"Not who did it, you moron, _how_." Sherlock started to perk up, "The Bank of England, Pentonville Prison _and _the Tower of London all at once? It's genius." He looked as if he was discussing something absolutely fantastic but Emma failed to see anything exciting about the concept.

"Genius? Someone who can unlock any door in the universe remotely sounds more terrifying to me."

At this point another police officer pulled Lestrade to one side, and the two began discussing the scene. As they chatted, Sherlock turned to Emma,

"What do all of the security systems of those institutions have in common?" He demanded. Emma was slightly taken aback,

"What, sorry; is this some sort of a test?"

"Just answer, please." Sherlock said with a sigh.

"They're all electronic – all security systems are these days."

Sherlock snapped his fingers, "Got it. And what can people –"

"They were hacked, Sherlock, I get it," Emma didn't know why she interrupted him. She supposed that she had a subconscious urge to impress him, as irritating as that idea seemed, "You don't need to act like I'm a child."

"You are a child."

"I'm fifteen!"

"Exactly."

Emma sighed and Sherlock gave a triumphant smirk, then turned to John, "Why do this?"

"I'm sorry, since when did you ask me questions?" John sounded genuinely surprised that the Detective would do this, which confused Emma, as he hadn't even made a noise when Sherlock started testing her.

"But why, John? Moriarty left us alone for a year and now this – what does it mean?" He was getting quite angry with himself now, so Emma thought it best to intervene,

"Why don't we just sit back and wait for developments?" Emma suggested calmly, her words directed at John, but watching Sherlock carefully out of the corner of her eye, "He obviously wanted to get caught, so he probably wanted to have a trial. We could wait and see what he does then?"

Sherlock made a noise of realisation, "Of course, the trial!"

"Wait, what about it?" John asked. John sure asked a lot of questions.

"A big, public case like this – someone tried to steal _the Crown Jewels_, the media will _lap_ it up – the trial will be publicised, publicised _a lot_; he doesn't just want _my _attention," Sherlock turned to face Emma, his eyes bright and his face full of what looked like excitement, "he wants _the nation's_."

* * *

"And _where_ were you yesterday?"

Emma stopped in her tracks and sighed, screwing up her face,

"Shit, it's Tuesday."

"Yes," Miss Cross said, raising her eyebrows, "it is." She picked up a pile of textbooks and dumped them into Emma's arms, "Now, you can tell me where you were and _then_ you can give everyone a textbook, got it?"

Emma sighed again, and rolled her eyes at the Chemistry teacher, "I was investigating a break-in at the Tower of London."

"Yeah?" Miss Cross raised her eyebrows again, "And I didn't turn up to parent's evening last night because I was opening a concert for One Direction; hand out those books."

Emma smirked at the teacher, then set about handing out the books, before collapsing into her seat a few minutes later.

The lesson was long and boring. Miss Cross went on for half an hour about things Emma already knew about before setting the class on a task that Emma didn't care about. There wasn't even any interesting conversation; the girl who sat next to her refused to speak, and by the looks of her makeup and the deep frown lines on her forehead as she tried to read the words in the text book, any conversation that may have taken place would have been either snide remarks about the way she looked or questions about chemical symbols, and Emma wasn't in the mood for that.

Instead she thought about Moriarty, and the message he left on the glass of the jewel case. '_GET SHERLOCK_'. At first she had thought it was directed to the police – to get them to bring the detective to look into the break-in – but, after further contemplation, it became clear that it wasn't.

It had occurred to her as she walked into school; she had passed a newspaper stand, with the security footage for Moriarty plastered over every issue visible. The message was scrawled all over the news, '_GET SHERLOCK'_, everyone would see it. And, if Moriarty was what Sherlock had said he was - most dangerous and most influential man in the criminal underworld – he would have a network, a network of people who would follow his every order. A network of people who would '_GET SHERLOCK'._

Emma made a mental note to warn her father as soon as she got back to 221B, then turned to the girl sat next to her,

"You can't have more than eight electrons in the third shell of an atom."

* * *

_'You're falling about, you took a left off Last Laugh Lane / you were just sounding it out, you're not coming back again'_

On her way home, Emma noticed several things. Firstly, a man leaving a busy hotel in the city centre on the phone to his wife, telling her how well his conference had gone, and yes of course he was going to get a promotion, all the while waving goodbye to the woman he had been sleeping with for the past three nights. Secondly, someone had straightened the knocker on the door of 221B Baker Street that wasn't her, therefore they had a visitor.

Thirdly, Sherlock wasn't happy, judging by the shouting that was drifting down the street from the window.

Emma paused her iPod and pocketed the earphones, squinting up at the second floor. She unlocked the door and set off up the stairs, treading carefully so as to not make them creak, listening to the conversation.

"Is this really the best thing to do, Sherlock?" An unfamiliar voice asked. They sounded calm and authoritative, the tone of their voice led Emma to believe that they were an older sibling.

"Trust me, Mycroft; I know what I'm talking about." Sherlock sounded irritated, though he had stopped shouting, which was a good thing, Emma supposed.

"I have never trusted you, brother."

Emma raised her eyebrows – brother? Sherlock hadn't mentioned that she had an uncle. Perhaps it was because they didn't seem to get on, Emma supposed.

"Fine, then don't; but just promise me that if he comes asking, you tell him what he wants to hear."

"Very well, just don't blame me when he uses it to ruin you."

It was then that Emma chose to open the door and enter the cluttered living room,

"When who uses what?" She asked as she dumped her backpack on the floor and hung her long, black coat on a hook by the door.

"No one and nothing," Sherlock sounded angry, and began ushering his brother towards the exit, "Thank you, Mycroft, and don't straighten the knocker on your way out." But Mycroft paused,

"Same hair, same facial bone structure and same eye colour – brother dearest, you never told me you had a daughter." Mycroft turned back to face Sherlock, his eyebrows raised and a small smirk on his lips.

"Shut up. Get out." Sherlock snapped, almost pushing the older man now.

"Now, now; there's no need to be embarrassed," Mycroft was clearly enjoying this too much. Emma wasn't sure if she liked his attitude at all, he seemed very childish, "What's it's name?"

OK, she definitely didn't like him, "_Her _name is Emma," She interjected, folding her arms, "And she would also like you to leave, thank you very much."

"You heard her: leave." Sherlock was the one smirking this time. Mycroft raised his eyebrows,

"Very well; have fun playing Happy Families."

And with a twirl of his umbrella, he was gone.

* * *

**A/N - thanks for reading :) reviews would be appreciated. also i will try and update by next wednesday but yeah, no promises**


	4. Chapter 4 - Sinnerman

**A/N - sorry about the wait! i was on holiday :/**

* * *

**Chapter 4 – Sinnerman**

The next day Emma reached the hallway of 221B to hear the sounds of arguing. She assumed it was Mycroft again and sighed loudly, before reaching for the door handle.

"I swear, Sherlock, if she ends up dead because of you –"

Emma froze. That wasn't Mycroft. That wasn't Mycroft at all.

Her mother had followed her to London.

Emma stayed outside of the door, not wanting to interrupt. She knew Sherlock would have heard the stairs creak and so knew she was here, but her mother would have no clue – the argument continued regardless.

"She won't end up dead! Despite what you may think, Casey, and despite what the papers say my whole life doesn't revolve around murder."

Emma snorted – that was a blatant lie, but her mother wouldn't be able to tell. Casey could never tell when anyone lied to her.

"That may be so, but do you even have _any _idea how to look after a fifteen year old?"

"She doesn't need looking after."

"Oh, there's your first mistake – despite what she tells you, Sherlock, Emma is still a child. I trust you're sending her to school?"

Emma sighed, sensing a boring turn of the conversation, suspecting that she missed the full blown shouting when she was at school. She pushed the door open and stood in the doorway. Sherlock didn't turn, he had known she was there, after all, but her mother whirled around, glaring,

"_You_ are in deep, _deep _trouble, young lady," She practically dragged Emma into the room, slamming the door shut, "for a _start _you owe me two hundred pounds and how _dare _you leave without my permission! And to live with a man you've never met!"

Emma pulled away from her mother's grip, scowling, "Sherlock's fine. He takes better care of me that you ever did." This was, again, a blatant lie, but Emma wanted to hurt her mother as much as possible.

"You have no idea what he's like! He could be a serial killer for all you know!"

"Actually, he's the one who solves the murders, he doesn't commit them."

"Shut up," Casey snapped, "You're coming home with me, get your things."

Emma's eyebrows shot up, "Oh, am I? I rather think I'm not." She crossed her arms across her chest.

"If I may interject," Sherlock interrupted, "Surely it should be Emma's decision where she lives?"

"I already told you, Sherlock, Emma is a child, she doesn't know what's best for her." Casey spoke to him as if he was a five year old, unable to completely comprehend what was going on.

"OK, no, I'm not having this. I am not a child, mother_, _and I _do _know what's best for me, and what's best for _me _is definitely not living with _you." _Emma moved back to the door and threw it open, "If you could leave now, please, that would be great."

Casey looked at Sherlock incredulously, as if he would put a stop to all of this nonsense, but he said nothing, he just looked at her expectantly. She sighed loudly and pinched the bridge of her nose. That was what she did when she was trying to calm down, Emma noted.

"Just –" Casey put her hands down and looked up at Emma, "Just text me, or something, once a week, let me know that you're safe." She looked defeated, her eyes as large and sad as the day before Emma had left.

"I might," Emma had no sympathy, she simply folded her arms, "Bye, mum."

* * *

Moriarty's trial occurred the next week, and Sherlock had been called on as a witness as he was one of the only people known to have had a conversation with the man. Emma had managed to persuade Sherlock to phone into her school to get her the day off (he had insisted _just _the first day, but Emma would work on that later) by insisting that going to a trial would be more educational than the drivel she was forced to listen to for 5 hours every day – he had agreed with that.

She was to sit with John in the gallery, and had been forced to wear a dress so as to look smart. She had agreed only at the compromise that she could wear a scowl too. John had laughed at that – Sherlock had not.

At half past seven, a police car arrived outside of 221B to take the three of them to court.

"Ready?" John asked the two others in the hallway.

"Yes." Sherlock answered, sounding rather indifferent. The front door was pushed open by the doctor. There was a bright flash as the first of many photographs of the three of them was taken. The lights left blotches in her vision even as Emma screwed her eyes up against them, and they remained there as several police officers ushered her, John and Sherlock into the back of the car.

Emma was squashed between the two men, feeling rather uncomfortable and wondering how many drunks had vomited in the back of this car before. Sherlock turned his head to look at her,

"If anyone asks you, you are not my daughter; you are a law student who wanted to observe the trial. John is your uncle, do you understand?" He said all of this rather quickly, and Emma blinked at him.

Sherlock sighed, "Moriarty will have people in the gallery, I'm sure – if he finds out about you I don't know what he'll do, but I'm certain it won't be nice."

Emma raised her eyebrows, "Wow, okay," She chuckled lightly, "Don't want to get murdered or anything."

They were silent for a few minutes. Emma didn't like sitting in the middle seat, she couldn't see out of the windows – though she had lived there for two weeks already, she still felt like a tourist; the thought of Trafalgar Square whizzing by the windows, unobserved by her, disheartened Emma slightly.

"Remember..." John started, gazing past Emma at Sherlock, who looked irritated and interrupted him,

"Yes."

John tried again, "_Remember_..."

And Sherlock, again, interrupted, "_Yes_."

John looked out of the window, his frustration evident, then turned back, speaking quickly, "Remember what they told you: don't try to be clever..."

Sherlock spoke over him bitterly, "No."

John persevered, "and _please_, just keep it simple and brief."

"God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across intelligent." Sherlock muttered.

"'Intelligent' fine, let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth."

Sherlock sighed and there was a pause in conversation. Emma glanced between the two men anxiously. She felt an argument brewing.

"I'll just be myself." Sherlock said quietly.

"Are you listening to me!?" John snapped. Emma laughed at the incredulous look on Sherlock's face. He stared at her like that for a moment, before tutting and looking away from her out of the window.

"Do you reckon he even knows what he's like?" Emma half whispered to John, grinning.

"He does it on purpose," John answered, trying very hard not to laugh, "Look, he's sulking."

There was another tut from the detective, who still refused to look around. The three of them fell back into silence and only the sound of the radio from the front of the taxi was heard.

_'Sinnerman, where you gonna run to? / Where you gonna run to? / All on that day'_

* * *

"A 'consulting criminal'?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered the barrister. Emma and John watched from the gallery whist the accused stood in the dock opposite the detective, chewing gum nonchalantly, as if he were not in a trial at all.

"Your words," The barrister continued, "Can you expand on that answer?"

"James Moriarty is for hire."

"A tradesman?"

"Yes."

"But not the sort who'd fix your heating." The prosecuting barrister raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly.

"No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler." Sherlock said without a shred of humour in his voice. There was laughter from a few members of the gallery.

"Would you describe him as –" The barrister started, but Sherlock interrupted,

"Leading."

"What?"

"Can't do that. You're leading the witness," Sherlock tuned slightly toward the defending barrister, "He'll object and the judge will uphold."

"Mr. Holmes." The Judge looked exasperated. Emma guessed that this wasn't the first time Sherlock had done this during his evidence.

Sherlock turned back to the defending barrister, "As me how – _how _would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?" He finished irritably.

The Judge, again, interjected, "Mr. Holmes, we are fine without your help."

Emma caught John turning in his seat to watch a woman entering the gallery. She glanced up at the woman – she seemed rather unremarkable to Emma; John probably fancied her or something. She turned her attention back to the court – her eyes drawn to Moriarty, who looked so ordinary but yet so terrifying. He continued to chew his gum, looking as if he was unaware that he was on trial.

The barrister continued, "How would you describe this man – his character?"

"First mistake," Sherlock's gaze fell on Moriarty, "James Moriarty isn't a man at all,"

Moriarty's eyes glanced up at the gallery and fell on Emma, who found herself frozen, unable to look away.

"He's a spider; a spider at the centre of a web – a criminal web with a thousand threads..."

His lips curled up into a smirk – Emma felt sick.

"... And he knows precisely how each and every one of them dances."

* * *

Sherlock was kicked out of the trial for contempt. To be honest, Emma felt as if she should have seen that coming – John definitely had. The two of them sat on the steps of the court building after a recess had been called, the bitter December wind biting at their hands and faces. Members of the gallery and jury meandered out of the doors infrequently, walking past the pair without a second glance.

John stood, brushing off the knees of this trousers as he did so, "I'm going to get Sherlock," He announced, "You'll be alright here for a bit, won't you?" He asked.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Tell him I think he's a dick."

"Don't worry, I'll be telling him that myself..." John muttered. He gave her a small wave, then turned and walked away.

Emma sighed loudly, pulling the iPod out of her pocket. She was about to put the headphones in her ears when she felt someone collide with her back and doubled over, the offending man regaining his balance and laughing, then offering her a hand. She took it and stood next to him – the man was tall, his hair a dark sandy colour; he looked in his late twenties. He wore a cheap suit and looked as if he felt rather uncomfortable in it. He stood with the posture of one in the army.

"Sorry about that," The man laughed, "Are you alright?" The laughter didn't suit him – neither did the smile on his face.

"Um, yeah, I'm fine," Emma stuffed the iPod back into her coat, and then added scornfully, "You should take better care of where you're walking."

"I'm sorry I was in a bit of a rush to leave – I hate those kinds of places." He pointed back at the court building's door with his thumb. Emma narrowed her eyes,

"Then why did you go?"

"Part of the jury." He shrugged.

No he wasn't. Emma had seen every member of that jury and he hadn't been sat amongst them.

"Oh, I'm Sebastian, by the way." He smiled at her, obviously waiting for her to introduce herself in return. He worked for Moriarty, Emma was sure of it.

"Annie Cresta," Emma gave the first name that came into her mind, and smiled back convincingly, "Nice to be tripped over by you. Now, I must be off, they'll want me back at college." She gave him a wave, then set off down the steps and kept walking until she was safely hidden around a corner.

She dug her phone out of her pocket and dialled John's phone number – he had given it to him telling her it was best to ring him in an emergency rather than Sherlock, as Sherlock didn't seem to see time pass at the same rate as the rest of the world.

"Hello? Is something wrong?" John answered, sounding slightly annoyed – Emma suspected he had been in the middle of a conversation with Sherlock.

"Moriarty had someone here – I think they know who I am."

* * *

**A/N - its a bit longer than usual so i hope you didnt mind the wait! reviews would be appreciated :)**


	5. Chapter 5 - A Million Ways

**A/N - yooooooo 2 chapters in one week to make up for the lack over the two weeks before**

* * *

**Chapter 5 – A Million Ways**

"What did he say to you?"

Sherlock and John found Emma in her hiding spot down an alleyway, and Sherlock immediately marched up to her, speaking quickly as he grabbed hold of her shoulders. His eyes were hard and serious – he almost looked as if he cared.

"He told me his name was Sebastian and then asked me what mine was. He pretended to be part of the jury."Emma stepped out of Sherlock's grasp.

"Did you tell him your name?" John asked, sounding concerned.

"No. I just told him a name out of a book," Emma shrugged, "As long as he hasn't read _The Hunger Games _we should be fine."

"He'll have known you were lying," Sherlock tutted, "If he's who I think he is then he can tell that kind of thing."

"Why, who'd you think he is?" John turned his worried gaze from Emma to Sherlock.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock stated, "He's an assassin for hire, though I've heard he's no longer freelance. He belongs to Jim Moriarty."

"An assassin?"

"So I've heard."

"He wasn't acting very much like one today," Emma raised an eyebrow, "seeing as no one's dead."

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured, "Not yet."

Emma blinked, "Oh, that's a nice thought."

Sherlock smiled, "Isn't it?"

* * *

"You're not going back there," Sherlock said, "One of the world's most infamous assassins is waiting for you there and I made a promise that I wouldn't let you get killed."

"I'm not going to get killed at a _trial_; there would be way too many dangers – too many people, way too many potential witnesses."

"Don't get clever with me," Sherlock looked up at her from where he sat with his laptop on his knee. Emma scoffed; he could talk. Sherlock continued, "You're not going to the trial. Go to school." He looked back down at the screen.

Emma went over to the door and threw her coat on over her uniform, muttering under her breath, "Bastard,"

"I heard that."

"Fuck off."

When she got onto the street, Emma looked behind her to see if the boy in her Physics was walking up the road, as he always was when she was on time. She couldn't see him, indicating that she was either very late or mildly early. She put her headphones into her ears, pulled out her iPod and pressed play,

_'Sit back, matter of fact, teasing, toying, turning, chatting, charming, hissing, playing the crowd / Play that song again, another couple Klonopin, a nod, a glance, a half-hearted bow'_

Emma shoved her hands into her pockets to keep them out of the bitter cold and set off on her way to school. As she turned the corner she saw the boy – Oliver, if she remembered correctly – precisely 30 seconds walking (at his pace) in front.

So, not that late then.

The boy turned slightly to look over his shoulder, possibly hearing the sound of her footsteps, and smiled as he saw her, slowing his pace slightly so that she could catch up. Emma sighed, but obliged the boy, meeting his pace and smiling as she pulled the headphones out of her ears,

"Morning,"

"Hey, it's Emma, isn't it?" He asked. His face was thin and his hair dark. He looked like a liar to Emma, so she decided she didn't trust him.

"Yeah, that's it."

There was a long pause. Oliver looked as if he wanted her to continue the conversation. Emma sighed loudly,

"So, did you have a nice weekend?" She asked. Small talk was not her thing.

"It was okay," Oliver shrugged, looking down at his feet. His head popped back up quickly and he turned to look at her again, "Hey, um, you missed the double lesson yesterday, do you want to borrow my notes or anything?"

"What did you do?"

"Measuring current and voltage in circuits."

Emma groaned, "_Circuits_? Ugh, boring."

"I actually quite like them."

"Well, you would."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oliver looked at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"You have a tiny mind; you're easily amused."

Oliver, to Emma's surprise, laughed, "Oh," he said sarcastically, "Thanks. Well, no one can compare to the might of your massive intellect, can they?"

Emma smirked, "No, actually."

* * *

Emma heard talking again as she climbed the staircase to 221B, though they seemed more subdued than usual – no one was shouting. For this reason she assumed that it would be fine for her to enter unannounced.

"... we're just alike, you and I – except you're boring –"

James Moriarty stopped mid sentence and turned his head to watch Emma enter,

"Oh, we missed you at the trial, _Annie_," Moriarty waved, his smile sickly sweet. Emma stared, dropping her schoolbag by the now closed door without a word, "Seb was _very _upset."

Emma glanced at Sherlock.

"Not guilty? Really?" She asked, her voice a half whisper.

"So it seems." He answered, pouring himself a cup of tea and taking a sip.

"He rigged the jury then?" Emma shrugged, relaxing slightly, seeing as Sherlock didn't seem alarmed, "I expected something a bit more... dramatic. Can I have one?" She pointed to the tea in the detective's hand. He handed her a cup; it seemed as though he had anticipated her arrival during the scene.

Emma went to pull up a chair from the table by the window, and sat facing the two in an effort to join the conversation. Moriarty didn't stop watching her as she moved with a calculating gaze. When she sat, she took a sip of tea before turning to the man and prompting, "So, the jury?"

"I got into the Tower of London; you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

Sherlock nodded slightly, "Cable network." He acknowledged.

Moriarty lifted his teacup from its saucer, "Every hotel bedroom has a personalised TV screen..." He lifted the cup to his lips, glancing at Emma, "And every person has their pressure point; someone they want to protect from harm." He took a sip, and put the cup down, moving his gaze back to Sherlock before finishing softly, "Easy peasy."

Sherlock had sat down in John's chair, and was holding his tea cup up close to his face, "So," He asked, "How're you going to do it?" He blew on his tea pointedly, "_Burn me_?"

Moriarty lifted his tea cup again, "Oh, that's the problem – the final problem. Haven't you worked it out yet?" He sipped at his tea again, "What's the final problem?" He smiled into the teacup, "I did tell you," His voice was sing-song, "But did you listen?"

He placed the cup back down on the saucer, before idly drumming his fingers on his knee. Emma watched them dance, there seemed to be no distinct rhythm, but the action seemed important, though Moriarty didn't look to be concentrating at all.

"How hard do you find it?" He asked, his fingers still drumming on his knee, "Having to say 'I don't know'?" Moriarty smiled at Sherlock, who placed his cup onto the saucer and shrugged,

"I dunno," He said nonchalantly, raising his eyebrows.

Moriarty chuckled, putting his teacup back onto the tray on the table, "Oh, that's clever; that's very clever; _awfully _clever." He raised his eyebrows, "Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?"

"Told them what?" Sherlock asked.

"Why I broke into those places but never took anything."

"No."

"But _you _understand?" Moriarty turned back to face Emma again, "Both of you do?"

"Obviously." Sherlock answered, causing Moriarty to face him again.

"Off you go then." He took out a penknife from his pocket, cutting a chunk out of the apple in his hands and putting it in his mouth, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock looked slightly confused – or, as confused as it was possible for him to look, "You want me to tell you what you already know?"

"No," Moriarty almost laughed, "I want _her _to tell me." His gaze fell on Emma again, who raised an eyebrow at him,

"Why?"

"Just curious," He shrugged.

Emma sighed, "You didn't take anything because you didn't _need _to."

"Good," Moriarty sounded surprised, and turned to give an approving nod to Sherlock.

"You'll never need to break into anywhere again."

He chuckled again, "_Good_... because?" He prompted.

"Because the money you could get from, say, the Crown Jewels; that's _nowhere near_ the amount you could get for the key to get to them – the key to get to anything or into anywhere."

"I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code." Moriarty must have decided that he had heard enough, as he began to explain, "No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I _own_ secrecy. Nuclear codes? I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order." He grinned at Emma, "In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king; and honey, you should _see_ me in a crown."

Sherlock interjected, "You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do." There was a faint smile on his lips.

Moriarty began cutting into the apple again, whilst addressing Sherlock, "And you were helping. Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities ... terrorist cells. They all want me." He put another piece of apple in his mouth, smiling wryly and raising his eyebrows, "Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex."

"Wait," Emma started, "If you could break into whichever bank you wanted, why do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't," Moriarty scoffed, then smiled, "I just like to watch them all competing – 'Daddy loves _me_ the best'" He imitated, then continued in a drawl, looking back at Emma, "Aren't _ordinary people _adorable?" He turned to Sherlock, "You'd know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one." He finished, almost as an afterthought.

"Why _are _you doing all of this?" Sherlock asked, but Moriarty wasn't listening,

"It would be so funny."

Sherlock continued, "You don't want money or power – not really."

Moriarty stabbed the penknife back into the apple, as if he was not aware that Sherlock was talking.

"What _is _it all for?"

Moriarty looked back up at Sherlock, leaning toward him and speaking softly, "I want to solve the problem – _our _problem; the final problem." He lowered his head, "It's going to start very soon, Sherlock – the fall."

He raised his head again and whistled, the note descending as he moved his head back down to look at the floor – as if he was watching someone fall to the ground, before making the sound of something hitting the floor.

"But don't be scared," He did not look up as he spoke, but his words became harder, "Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."

Moriarty raised his head, glowering at the detective, who stood from John's chair and buttoned his jacket, "Never liked riddles." He said, shrugging his shoulders. Emma placed her teacup on the table, also standing but feeling considerably less relaxed than Sherlock after Moriarty's speech.

Moriarty rose from his seat, straightened his jacket and looked at Sherlock pointedly, "Learn to," his voice held a note of sympathy, "Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock... I. _Owe. _You."

The last three words were not a threat, they were a promise. Moriarty held Sherlock's gaze in silence for a few seconds before slowly turning and leaving the room, leaving the apple on the table. The penknife was crudely sticking out of the side, and Emma moved to pick it up, reading the message carved in the side, before turning it to show her father, who's mouth twitched into a smile.

_'I. O. U._'

* * *

**A/N - to be honest it was super hard to au that scene, so the majority's the same :/ **

**reviews would be appreciated :)**


	6. Chapter 6 - Last Stop: This Town

**A/N - christmas at baker street. youre welcome.**

* * *

**Chapter 6 – Last Stop: This Town**

Emma hated the last day of school before the Christmas holidays. Just because it was almost the holiday teachers felt that it was okay to slack off – just giving the class a quiz or a film to occupy them for an hour before moving on to the next. Not only was this hugely unsatisfying (she had seen the first hour of _The Muppets Christmas Carol_ three times, but had still not seen the end), but it was lazy as well. They were teachers; it's their job to _teach_.

Emma also hated the last day of school because everyone seemed to forget that seating plans existed, and so Oliver seemed to think that he was obliged to sit next to her. Emma would have preferred it if he didn't, if she was honest.

"If Santa has 3 hours to visit 3,000 houses, and takes 3 seconds to place presents under a Christmas tree, how long does he spend travelling within this time?" Miss Cross asked, reading out the fifteenth question in her 'festive fun quiz'.

"I resent her referring to maths as 'fun'." Oliver muttered, taking the lid off of his calculator, about to start working out the problem.

"I agree. It's 1,800 seconds, by the way," Emma tapped the paper twice with her finger, "unless she wants it in minutes, in which case it's 30."

He looked exasperated, "Will you give me a chance?"

"I did – you had 3 _whole _seconds to work that out."

"No one could work that out in 3 seconds!"

"Couldn't they?" Emma smirked, "1,800 seconds. Check it." She pointed to the calculator.

Oliver punched in the numbers, a determined look on his face, then he pressed the enter key and frowned,

"Dammit, you were right." He said half heartedly.

"Aren't I always?"

Oliver scoffed, but said nothing else on the matter.

"Hey, did you hear about the bloke who stole the Crown Jewels? He got off scot-free; dunno how though."

"He didn't steal them, he just tried them on;" Emma said quickly, "The next answer is silver." She attempted the change the subject.

"Ah, OK," Oliver glanced up at the screen where the questions were shown before scribbling the answer, "But how did you know that?"

"Well, clearly it's silver, you just need to consider –"

"No, the Crown Jewels thing."

"Oh, I was sort of there afterwards." Emma looked down at the paper.

"No way; you never told me."

"'Oh, sorry I was off yesterday I was investigating a break in at the Tower of London'; 'No, Miss, I wasn't in last lesson because I was at the trial of the century'; 'I had tea with a criminal mastermind yesterday I didn't have time to do my chemistry homework' – do any of these statements ring a bell with you? At least two of them got laughs." Emma listed off the quotations on her fingers, before glancing up at the screen again, "Mistletoe."

Oliver wrote down the answer on the quiz sheet, "To be honest, I thought you were being sarcastic to piss off Miss Cross."

"Yeah, she did too." Emma's thin lips curled up into a smirk.

"Didn't you get a detention for the last one?"

"Yep; apparently I have to stop lying to her."

At this point the aforementioned teacher interrupted, calling for quiet from the class so that she could go through the answers. She seemed to have given up – it was last period, after all – and went through the answers as fast as possible. She was dressed in a much smarter fashion than usual, and seemed to have made an effort with her appearance, her long red hair in an intricate bun. So, the staff party was tonight, then, and it seemed she wasn't able to wait (Emma had noticed that her teacher had her eye on one of the physics teachers across the corridor, which was probably why).

Emma and Oliver got full marks – and a packet of Parma Violets each.

The final bell went and there was a cheer from some of the rowdier members of the class, at which Emma tutted. As he slung his backpack over his shoulders, Oliver grinned at her and asked,

"Hey, are you walking home?"

"What," Emma laughed at him, "Like I do every other day?"

"Well, I don't know, you could have been going to catch up or something."

"It's the last day of school, they don't run catch ups. Also, what would I need to catch up on? I'm ahead of everyone else, it should be them catching up."

As they left the classroom and headed towards the school gates, Oliver sighed, "Do you always have to be like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like, y'know... you always act so _superior_."

"That's because I am."

Oliver laughed at her. Emma still though that it was weird he was so amused when she wasn't trying to be funny, but he was the only person so far who hadn't called her a freak, so she had accepted that he was going to be the only friend she'd get.

He was scrawny and tall, Emma's senior by 3 months and 5 days and spent his free time, she had been surprised to find out, reading classic literature. He had terrible taste in music, but Emma had plans to sort that out – she had given him a pile of CDs to listen to over the Christmas holidays in lieu of a present, telling him that he needed to stop with the Pitbull already or she would punch him. He had chuckled at that as well, not seeming to realise that she was serious.

If she was honest, though, Emma felt sorry for Oliver. His parents had died in a car accident when he was seven and since then he had been living in a children's home in Central London. He hadn't expanded anymore on that, but his family history seemed even more fucked up than hers, so she didn't want to push it. There were several other younger children from his home that also went to their school, but Oliver insisted that they were all awful, and that he hated most of them. Emma had smiled at that; she admired people who _hated_. What's the point in living if you didn't have anyone to hate?

"I guess I'll see you in two weeks then." He shrugged his shoulders as Emma drifted away from him towards the door of 221B after the short walk between their school and her house.

"Yep," Emma pulled her door key out of her pocket and waved to him, "Have a nice Christmas, or whatever."

Oliver waved back, smiling, "Yeah, you too. Try not to get dragged off to too many crime scenes over the festive period."

"Oh no, I _will_," She pushed the door open, then turned back to him, "The only time _he _ever talks to me is when we have a case, otherwise it will be a very boring Christmas indeed."

"Fair enough; see you later."

"Yeah, bye."

She kicked the door closed with the heel of her foot before setting off up the stairs and peeking her head around the living room door,

"I'm home."

"I know." Sherlock answered flatly.

"Yeah, I know; just thought I'd confirm that it was me and not Moriarty."

He sighed and looked up from his laptop, "Stop trying to be funny, it doesn't suit you."

Emma sighed and went up the second flight of stairs to her bedroom, shutting the door and picking up a book, before dropping her bag and coat on the floor and collapsing onto her bed. Christmas with Sherlock was not going to be fun.

* * *

"Mrs Hudson," Emma hissed as she knocked at the woman's door, "Mrs Hudson, I need your help!"

There was a muffled "Just a minute, dear" from inside, and the sound of plates being put on a drainage board. A few moments later the door was pulled open,

"What's wrong, Emma? Sherlock hasn't been leaving experiments in the microwave again, has he? I swear, that man –"

"No no, well, yes but that wasn't the point. I just... What am I supposed to do about tomorrow?"

"What do you mean tomorrow?"

"_Christmas_?"

"Oh yes, that one," She paused, "Why; what's wrong with Christmas?"

Emma sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, "_Sherlock_; what do I do about Sherlock? I assumed he wasn't a Christmas person but now I'm worried it was a bad decision to not buy him anything and, Jesus Christ, Mrs Hudson, what if –" She stopped herself. She wasn't going to admit to Mrs Hudson that she was worried her father would disapprove of her in some way, or that she was scared he would hate her any more than he already did, or that he would get bored of her and send her back to her mother, "You know what; it doesn't matter. I'll just shove some cash in his card or something. Sorry to bother you, I'm gonna go now."

Mrs Hudson looked at her wearily, "Alright, dear, as long as you're sure," then she finished brightly, "You three are still coming down here for your dinner aren't you?"

"I assume," Emma shrugged, "Who knows what Sherlock'll want to do? Anyway, I'll be off now, I'll see you later."

She went up the two flights of stairs to her room and shut the door behind her, sighing. Her iPod sat on its dock, and she pushed the play button before sitting cross-legged on the floor and pulling a jumper from under her bed. A note was taped to the top of it:

_This better not be for me_

_Also, you get 1/5 for your hiding place – obvious_

Emma ripped the note from the sweater, muttering something about how Sherlock was a dickhead, before collecting a roll of wrapping paper, cellotape and a pair of scissors from the same spot and setting them out in front of her.

She wrapped John's present carefully – she had noticed him wrapping presents earlier in the week, taking at least five minutes on each, meticulously folding each crease with precision and care – as she knew he appreciated that kind of thing, the music playing on her stereo flowing through her, ridding her of the worry that had so recently plagued her mind.

_'What if I was not your only friend in this world / Can you take me where you're going if you're never coming back?'_

Music was the most important thing in Emma's life. It was the only thing she loved: it helped her to concentrate on what was important to her; tuned out the distractions of the wider world; focused her on whatever was paramount. He mother used to say it was scary watching her listen to music – that it was like she was high on heroin or tripping on acid. He eyes became unfocused, almost glazed over, and, if she wasn't concentrating on anything but the music her body became stiff and unmoving. It was as if nothing existed to her while layer upon layer of instruments played in her ears.

This had been the case for years – before she could even talk she would mumble along with the radio, singing wordlessly. She learnt to play the piano at the age of four, however her skill at such a young age had scared her mother and so she had been forbidden to play within two years. Emma still played at school, however, losing herself in the flow of the notes and the sweetness of the harmonies. She couldn't quit it – she expected that was what it was like to be an addict, and music was her drug.

* * *

Mrs Hudson had had too much sherry. John had had too much whiskey.

Emma had had _way_ too much cider.

They laughed rowdily as they forced Sherlock into the pink paper party hat that had fallen out of his Christmas cracker. It was only three in the afternoon and, already, Sherlock had had enough of the festivities and was itching to get back to seclusion.

"Yes, excellent, can we get dinner over with now, please?" He asked irritably. Emma giggled – he pulled silly faces when he was annoyed.

"Oh, Sherlock, don't be like that," There was a red tinge in Mrs Hudson's smiling face, "It's Christmas!"

John sniffed loudly, "Turkey would be nice, though, Mrs Hudson." He said, raising his glass to his lips once more.

The woman laughed loudly, the shrill sound sharp in Emma's ears, "No no, we have to do presents first!"

She pulled a pile of presents out of a cupboard and placed them on the dinner table, where they were all sat. John received two jumpers, one from Emma and the other from Mrs Hudson, ("Why does everyone always buy me knitwear?" He asked, bewildered) and a membership for a dating website from Sherlock, which was promptly thrown in the bin by the angry blogger. Emma had thought that to be very funny. She got two books – _Pride and Prejudice_ from John, who had explained that Harry had liked it when she was Emma's age; and _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_ from Mrs Hudson, which Emma pretended not to have read and loathed already – and got nothing from Sherlock, which didn't surprise her at all. Sherlock received a book called "_The Poisoner's Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York_" from John, but then slated it, stating that it was much too amateur for a chemist of his calibre; and a new shirt from Mrs Hudson, whom he thanked curtly.

After opening her own presents, Mrs Hudson took another two presents from the sideboard, explaining that they had come through the post for Emma a few days before. The first was clearly from her mother, and was a CD that Emma herself had already bought. The other did not have a return address, or a note saying who had sent it.

When she opened the wrapping, she was left with a large, leather-bound collection of Grimm's Fairy Tales. She flipped open the cover to see if the sender had written anything inside; and they had. In small block capitals, scrawled in the top corner of the title page were the words: '_STORY FOUR SHOULD INTEREST YOU... EVERY FAIRYTALE NEEDS A GOOD OLD-FASHIONED VILLAIN'_.

She flicked to the contents page and looked up the title of the fourth story.

_The Story of the Youth Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was_

"That looks nice," Mrs Hudson leant around to look at the book, but Emma snapped the cover shut before she could read it, "Who sent it, does it say?"

Emma was suddenly feeling very sober, "No. No it doesn't." She placed the book to one side, before glancing at Sherlock and tapping the cover twice with her fingers. He nodded at her once, obviously getting the message, "But I'm pretty sure of who it's from."

* * *

**A/N - wow such plot twist**

**please review it distracts me from my awful life**


	7. Chapter 7 - Bigmouth Strikes Again

**A/N - i like the first half of this chapter a lot - the second half not so much but yknow, they couldnt go 2 months without a case, could they?**

* * *

**Chapter 7 – Bigmouth Strikes Again**

Curled on the sofa, her feet tucked up under a cushion and leaning her back on the arm, Emma sat, soaking in the words of the book John had bought her for Christmas. The flat was silent; Sherlock was in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, thinking, and John had gone out over an hour ago, neglecting to tell either one of them where he was going. The silence was nice, and Emma felt oddly contented with the lack of sound, though her index finger tapped idly against the cover of the book, following some unheard melody, keeping perfectly in time.

The two of them must have been sat like this for at least an hour; however Emma lost track of the time, as she often did when she was reading.

"Independent," Sherlock said suddenly, his fingers breaking apart and settling on the arms of his chair.

Emma had been so immersed in her book that she almost jumped when Sherlock spoke. She closed the book and turned in her spot so that she was sat forwards, her feet touching the floor, before looking up at him, "Independent?" She asked.

"You – that's the best word I can think of to describe you."

"Wait," Emma placed the book on the sofa next to her, matching Sherlock's calculating gaze with her own, "Have you been sat there _deducing me_ for the past –" she glanced at her watch, "- two hours?"

"It's not been two hours, don't be ridiculous."

"That's a yes, then."

Sherlock sighed – a deep, exasperated sigh – and rolled his eyes as if this was a conversation the two of them had a lot, which it wasn't, "You're a strange character. I was simply trying to sum you up in my head. Now, John, he's easy: Loyal, dependant, a little useless; but you're more complicated."

"That's probably due to sharing a gene pool with you." Emma raised an eyebrow and smirked; Sherlock, to her surprise, returned her slight smile.

"Quite," He muttered.

"So," Emma prompted, leaning back into the sofa and crossing her arms, "Independent?"

"You ran away from home at fifteen years old to live with a man you have never met just because your mother was, and I quote, 'annoying'." He replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yeah, apart from that?"

"Have I ever had to do anything for you?" His question was rhetorical, but Emma considered it for a moment – he hadn't, "You cook for yourself with adequate skill – you obviously were not used to having meals made for you with your mother – as well as cleaning and shopping and all of that boring stuff." He waved a hand dismissively.

"Yeah, well. Mum wasn't too inclined to make me dinner when I rolled in off of the streets at 2 in the morning every night." Emma shrugged, and then continued, seeing Sherlock's slightly quizzical expression, "I used to like to go to Victoria Bridge at night, looking out at the moonlight dancing on the water of the River Clyde. The city at night cleared my head – I used to be very angry back then, you see, but less so now – it used to pull me away from my family and their remarks."

Sherlock was watching her carefully as she spoke, his fingers once again steepled beneath his chin, "Remarks?" He prompted, his voice almost soft.

"My mum used to get scared when I could tell her stuff she thought was secret – y'know, how many more anti-depressants she'd taken than usual, that kind of thing – she said that it'd get me into trouble one day. She used to tell me I was a 'weirdo', or whatever. She said I was too much like you – she said I'd end up getting myself killed by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. And Daniel..."

"Your stepdad?"

"Yeah. He was, well – let's just say I didn't take to him as a child, and he's not really liked me very much since."

"What do you mean?"

He was deducing again.

"Mum tried to get me to call him 'Dad' when I was a kid – about three, I think – but I refused. I think she was hoping I'd just fall into calling him that but I didn't. He was rather offended."

"That doesn't seem that bad."

"I called him a bastard when I was four."

"Ah,"

"He tried to give me a hug," Emma shrugged, "I didn't want a hug, not from him – I didn't like him to touch me, he always felt like a stranger. I knew the word wasn't nice, so I called him it. Our relationship is still very much the same now, hence the going out and not speaking to the two of them."

Sherlock nodded, "Understandable," He said, once again placing his hands lightly on the arms of his chair.

"Is it?" Emma asked.

"Perfectly – I used to wander the town until the early hours myself as a teenager. The release from bickering was a welcome change."

Emma smiled a small smile. It was nice to know that they had something other than the obvious in common, even if it was distant and trivial. The two sat in silence again and, though neither said it, they enjoyed each other's company for the first time since they had met. Emma was waiting for the result of Sherlock's most recent deduction, and didn't have to wait long,

"Emma Stoneheart: Independent, musical, fragile." He sounded triumphant, and drummed his fingers on the chair's arms twice.

"Fragile?" Emma was faintly offended, which came across in her raised voice.

"You're worried. Certain things – certain _people_ –" He added carefully, "they worry you."

"That still doesn't explain why I'm fragile," Emma drew her legs back up onto the sofa, retreating back into her former, curled up position, as if she was losing interest in the conversation; however, Sherlock could tell that she was not.

"That worry can be exploited – you would break without an ounce of pressure, I'm sure."

Emma scoffed, suddenly becoming angry with the detective, who sat there looking innocent as if he had no idea what he was saying, "And why is that? How can you be so sure I couldn't hold up under pressure?"

"I'm sure you can in most situations. But that pressure coupled with all of that worry, tucked away at the back of your mind... I can't be the first to have noticed. You're fragile, Emma; you're like a coronet – unbreakable to most but, when the right people come along to steal you away, you'll be broken in the struggle for the prize..." He trailed off.

Emma's head was filled with a whole manner of images. She had considered what it was that worried her, and she could not pinpoint it until Sherlock mentioned the coronet – it was Moriarty. Though she did not know why, he struck fear into her very core whenever he was mentioned. She felt cold – the sensation flooding over her body as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over her head – and shuddered. She was the coronet – the prize that they were fighting for, though she did not yet know who Moriarty's opponent would be, or why he wanted her, but she was sure it wouldn't be good.

This had all started when Moriarty had stolen the Crown Jewels, and now he was after another prize, for whatever reason he had.

_"Honey, you should see me in a crown_..."

"What?" Sherlock's head snapped back up to look at her. Emma was suddenly conscious of the fact that she had been muttering under her breath.

"I said, um, I'm going upstairs." She picked up her book and left the room before Sherlock could process what she had said, closing her bedroom door and sitting with her back to it.

She closed her eyes and sighed, before standing and making her way over to her stereo and turning it on.

_'And now I know how Joan of Arc felt, now I know how Joan of Arc felt / As the flames rose to her Roman nose and her Walkman started to melt'_

* * *

"Client."

It was the second week of the new year, and the street outside was beginning to ice over after the snowy spell that had occurred in the previous week. Emma had just got in from school, confused to see a woman sat in her usual spot on the sofa, cradling a shoebox in her arms. John and Sherlock were sat in their usual armchairs, listening. She was just about to ask who the woman was when Sherlock spoke.

"OK," Emma nodded, "do you want me to leave or-?" She indicated to the door behind her with her thumb over her shoulder.

"No, no," Sherlock gestured toward the table by the window, in lieu of an invitation to sit down. Emma took his offer and sat, a mug of tea that had cooled to the perfect temperature in front of her.

"Thanks," She directed the comment towards John, as she expected it was him who had made her it, as she picked up the mug. John shook his head and laughed quietly, which was odd.

"Susan Cushing has just received two severed ears in the post," Sherlock told Emma brightly, as she took a sip of the tea.

Emma swallowed the tea and nodded toward the woman, "And she brought them with her?" She asked, faintly disgusted.

"Of course," Sherlock answered, as if this was all perfectly normal, "They've been packed in salt, and so are very well preserved. If you can prise it out of her grasp you could have a look."

"I'll pass thanks." Emma placed the mug down on the table and slumped forward, leaning on her arm, fist under her chin.

The woman, Susan, cleared her throat loudly. Sherlock directed his gaze back towards her,

"Go on," He prompted.

"Well, I teach at the University of Greenwich, one of the medical courses. I had to dismiss three students due to their... inappropriate behaviour," She paused, her fingers drumming on the top of the box in a nervous manner. She seemed to be avoiding Sherlock's gaze, "I'm not sure, but I think it could have been them – a prank, you understand, to get back at me."

Sherlock nodded slowly, but looked as if he wasn't listening. He stood suddenly and took the box from her,

"Belfast?" He asked, squinting at the markings on the top left of the box.

"That's where they were from." Susan explained.

Sherlock pulled off the lid of the shoebox, which had been taped closed with brown packing tape. He placed it down on the table next to Emma as he put on a pair of gloves, and Emma glanced in at the contents. Two ears, yes, but not from the same person – only one was pierced and the other was much larger than the first – which had been hacked off, seemingly, with great difficulty. Emma took another sip of her tea as Sherlock took one of the two ears from the box and examined it, then turned his attention to the salt in the box.

"This hasn't been done by medical students," He said, dropping the ear back in the box, "The contents of this box are evidence of a serious crime."

Sherlock replaced the lid and began reading the sides of the box, looking at the size and style of the shoes that had been bought in it.

"What do you mean?" Susan asked, her fingers twisting together in her lap, her eyes widened with shock.

Sherlock had begun sniffing the contents of the box, and replied with his nose still inside of it, "Medical students would have been able to remove these ears with much more precision," He emerged from the box, his nose crinkled in disgust, "Also they'd probably have access to salt that didn't smell of fish."

"So, are you saying..?" Susan trailed off, seemingly too scared to finish the sentence.

"There's been a murder? Yes, I believe he is." Emma took another gulp of tea and gave the woman what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

"There's a spelling error in the address," Sherlock continued, "So the sender wasn't familiar with the Greenwich area – the handwriting also suggests that they're probably _not_ intelligent enough to get into a medical course." He placed the box back on the table.

"That's not much to go on," John commented.

"Yes, John, thank you." Sherlock sounded irritated, but continued analysing the box, "The shoes that used to be in this box were sturdy – work boots - suggests that the killer did manual labour; something that required a lot of standing and harsh conditions. The location of sending and the general smell of damp and fish suggest they work at the coast, or at sea – possibly the fishing industry."

Emma felt quite overwhelmed – that was a lot to get from just one box. She couldn't have got past 'ears' in the amount of time Sherlock had been studying the item. She took another sip of tea, feeling rather inadequate.

"If – If this is evidence of a murder, shouldn't we get the police?" Susan sounded slightly manic, and Emma felt a bit sorry for her; some people just weren't born to be involved in crime.

Sherlock sighed, and looked as if he were about to brush off her question, but John interrupted, pulling his phone out of his pocket,

"An excellent point," He looked pointedly at Sherlock, "I'll get Greg."

John left the room to call the detective, leaving Sherlock looking considerably more annoyed than he had previously.

"Mr Holmes," Susan started carefully, "If someone's murdered someone... why would they send this to _me_? I haven't any enemies – I've never argued with anyone in my life!"

Sherlock brushed off the remark, "It wasn't for you. Do you have any sisters?"

The seemingly random question took the girl by surprise, "Um, yes – Sarah and Katie - why?"

"There – The parcel was addressed to a 'Miss S Cushing' – your sister, Sarah. I assume you lived in the same house until recently?"

"We had to kick her out two months ago," Susan explained, "But why would they send her that? She's never been involved in anything of the –"

"Everyone has secrets, Susan," Sherlock interrupted, "It's time we unearthed them."

* * *

**A/N - there are a few of you who are following but not reviewing, it would be nice if you would :(**


	8. Chapter 8 - Dust on the Ground

**A/N - this new chapter's a bit short, but it was the best i could do - i've not been feeling too great at the moment and so the writer's block has kicked in. anyhoo, emma's moving to mycroft's for a few days, and isn't very happy about it.**

* * *

**Chapter 8 – Dust on the Ground**

Lestrade arrived to question the woman an hour later, and together he and Sherlock found out that Sarah, Susan's sister, was now living in Liverpool, and had decided that it would be best for them to travel to question her.

"Cool, so do I get the rest of the week off?" Emma asked brightly. She had migrated to John's armchair while the doctor had been calling Lestrade, and leant forward, resting her forearms on her knees in front of her, hands clasped together.

"No," Sherlock answered shortly, "You can stay with Mycroft."

Emma was about to protest when he interrupted her, "I truly am _very _sorry, I wouldn't wish that fate on my worst enemy; however, Mrs Hudson is away and laws must be obeyed. You can't skip school."

"Since when have you cared about the _law_?" Emma scoffed, narrowing her eyes at Sherlock, who glanced at Lestrade,

"I have the upmost respect for the rules of the land." He looked as if he was trying very hard not to laugh.

"Yeah, alright," Greg sounded irritated. He turned back to Susan, who was still sat on the sofa looking exceptionally uncomfortable, "Your sister's gonna be home tomorrow, right?"

"Well no," Susan said cautiously, "She's in the hospital up there – you see she's, well, a bit mad, to be honest."

"That's quite offensive," Emma commented quietly.

Susan looked over to her and corrected herself quickly, her words stumbling, "Well no, not mad, she was just – she's been diagnosed with post traumatic stress, y'know – a few months ago Katie's husband attacked her; something about his marriage breaking down or something. Sarah's kind of been in a bad way ever since. They admitted her to hospital a few days ago."

Emma lost interest in the conversation and sat back in the armchair, closing her eyes to shut out the scene from her mind. _Mycroft_. She had only met the man once, and that conversation hadn't lasted two minutes in total, but she already knew that she wasn't going to enjoy herself. Sherlock had filled her in on the details about him – he held some minor position in the government, and was very uppity about it; he was on a diet, usually, but had a weakness for cake; and he was incredibly childish. Emma could have told Sherlock the last one herself, after the way he acted when they met.

The thought of having to spend at least two days in his company was almost unbearable. The only positive of the situation was that Mycroft was rich, and so he probably had a huge house, which meant that if she was careful she could spend her entire time in the same building without bumping into him once. She hoped that this was the case – she may just have to kill herself otherwise.

Susan left, taking the ear box with her, followed quickly by Lestrade. Emma hopped out of the armchair and immediately sat in her spot on the sofa as soon as it was vacant, though it was uncomfortable and warm, which was irritating. Susan had an odd shaped body and had squashed the cushions into all the wrong shapes, and Emma made a face before turning to John, who had also collapsed into his usual spot,

"Why do _you _have to go?" She asked – if John stayed at 221B then she wouldn't have to holiday at the eldest Holmes' house and, although he was simple and a little dull, he was better than Mycroft.

John paused, his brow furrowing. He looked confused, as usual, "To be honest, I don't know," He indicated to Sherlock, who had sat at the kitchen table and was currently staring into space, probably thinking about something Emma's 'tiny mind' couldn't comprehend, "He usually insists."

"Could you skip this one? Please?" Emma leant forward slightly, raising her eyebrows and smiling.

John laughed at her, picking up the newspaper from the table next to him and opening it, "Emma, there's no way you can get out of this, you know that, right?"

Emma sighed, falling back into the sofa cushions exasperatedly, "That doesn't mean I can't try."

* * *

Mycroft's 'people' arrived precisely four minutes and thirty seconds after Sherlock and John left – timing that had obviously been planned beforehand to avoid any _talking_. Mycroft himself didn't bother to turn up, which struck Emma as a very arrogant and showy thing to do – very '_oh look at me with my flash car and my servants I don't even have to leave the house to collect you_' – Emma disliked show offs, which, she admitted, was rather hypocritical.

Emma opened the door to a woman in a business suit, who didn't look up from her phone to acknowledge her; she just stepped back and opened the back door of a pristine black car. The windows were dark and didn't offer Emma any idea as to who might be in there with her but she got in regardless of the fact that no one had introduced themselves. The woman slipped into the seat next to her and closed the car door, tapped the glass of the window once and then put her phone down. The car set off without any spoken command.

The woman turned to Emma, "Anthea, and you are?"

Emma almost laughed, "That's not your real name," She raised an eyebrow, "Annie."

"And _that's _not yours," She laughed lightly – a vain, self indulgent laugh – and went back to her phone, "We do have transcripts of every conversation you've had since you came to London, you know."

Emma didn't like this woman, she decided, and so she remained silent for the remainder of the car journey, choosing to listen to her iPod instead of making conversation.

_'I await your call; I await your crown / let's change our roads and chase them all around'_

Mycroft's house was even grander than Emma had expected it to be. Miles outside of London, the house was surrounded by a vast area of greenery, all of which seemingly belonged to her uncle. The house itself was massive – much too big for one man on his own – and lavishly decorated; the Edwardian architecture complimented with modern furniture which created an odd harmony, but one that was quite beautiful.

Maybe his position in the government wasn't as minor as Sherlock had led her to believe.

Anthea left Emma in what she had decided must be the entrance hall, drifting off through a door, stating "He's at work; he'll be back at ten. Don't go in any rooms with closed doors." The door she had just gone through was then shut.

Emma raised her eyebrows and looked around – everywhere was closed. _Everywhere_. She considered setting up camp in the hallway until she decided to check upstairs, where there was one open door.

It was a small guest room, with a single bed in the corner and a desk by the door. There was an en suite bathroom and a large window on the far wall. Emma moved to look out of it, the sunlight glaring against her skin – it offered a view of the motorway slicing through the green horizon; a scar on the skin of the landscape, the modern world bleeding from the old. She sighed and dropped her backpack on the bed, not moving her gaze from the road.

The city was too far away – she disliked the slowness of the country, and craved the bustle of London. There were no people to watch and deduce things about, no cases to solve (or even to watch other people solve, which was more like what usually happened), there were just fields and trees and the occasional fox. That was no fun. It was too quiet – she had become used to hearing sirens and cars and the yells of drunks as they passed by 221B at all hours of the day and night. There was no such thing as silence in the city – in the country it was all too real.

Her fingers tapped idly against the glass – the sound of her nails against the surface breaking the quiet for a moment – before she moved over to the desk, where a stereo and a small stack of books had been set. Emma inspected them quickly before deciding that they had been placed there specifically for her, though she wasn't sure how Mycroft had known what her favourite books were – every title in the room was in her top twenty.

She shrugged and plugged her iPod into the stereo, resuming the album she had been listening to whilst ignoring "Anthea" in the car, then selected_ The Book Thief_ from the stack and collapsed onto the bed.

She lost herself in the words, hours ticking by in what seemed like minutes as she read, until she suddenly felt as if someone was watching her. She lowered the book to her chest and peered over the volume at the doorway, where Mycroft was stood. Emma sat up, and said nothing. The two of them stared at each other for a moment, before her uncle spoke,

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced." He shared the same bored tone as Emma and her father did, and possessed the ability to, no matter what expression his face showed, always look as if he didn't give a shit about what was going on at all.

"Formality is boring." Emma said simply, closing the book and placing it on the windowsill, before standing. Mycroft's eyes followed the book,

"I assume you were enjoying that?" He asked, though Emma was sure that he wasn't assuming, he just _knew_. Mycroft made his way over to the window and picked up the book, inspecting the cover, "I never understood the appeal of fiction, myself."

"Escapism," Emma answered, taking the book from his hand almost bitterly, "Fiction appeals to people who don't like the world they see around them, people who want to get away to somewhere better and pretend that it's real, or to somewhere worse, to show us that we're actually pretty alright where we are."

"And that's why you read, is it," Mycroft's voice held a note of disgust, "to _escape_?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand anyway," She dropped the book onto the bed behind her, before holding out her hand for her uncle to shake, "Emma Stoneheart."

Mycroft looked at her hand for a moment, before gripping it, "Mycroft Holmes; I thought you didn't uphold formalities?" He raised an eyebrow in much the same way that Emma did when she felt triumphant.

"You look like the type who does. I thought I would conform."

They let go of each other's hands and Mycroft nodded at her once, before making his way out of the room. He stopped in the doorway and turned back to her,

"I'll have a car ready to take you to school at seven thirty tomorrow," He said, "Just ask someone downstairs for food if you get hungry."

"Oh, I don't eat very much."

Mycroft smirked at her reply, and Emma tilted her head to the side, her brow furrowed, "What?"

"It's nothing – you just remind me of my brother, that's all."

He left, closing the door behind him, and Emma sat back down on her bed, picking up the book and flicking through the pages with her thumb. Maybe her uncle wasn't as entirely awful as she had previously thought.

* * *

**A/N - reviews cure writer's block - it's a fact**


	9. Chapter 9 - Dog Days Are Over

**A/N - yo new chapter woah its super long - also it should make annabel happy bc seb**

* * *

**Chapter 9 – Dog Days Are Over**

Oliver's bedroom was small and cramped, and had clearly not been decorated since he had moved into the children's home when he was seven. The wallpaper was littered with images of cowboys; however it had since been covered with posters of Tarantino films and _Doctor Who _characters, which Emma had been impressed with. The two of them were sat on the floor, legs crossed, playing Cheat and throwing playing cards down on the carpet. The game was for three players, and so they had been forced to recruit a seven year old girl whose name Emma had forgotten, and who did not seem to understand the game.

"No, Lucy," Oliver was explaining, picking up the cards she had just put down on the pile and slipping them back into her hand, "This turn you have to put down an Ace – _face down_."

The little girl's brow furrowed and she looked up at Oliver, "But I don't have any Aces." She said. Emma sighed,

"Couldn't we get that thirteen year old instead?"

"Don't be rude, Emma," Oliver shot her a warning look, "Lucy's just learning, that's all."

Emma put her cards down on the carpet, then got to her feet, "Teach her later, I'm bored."

The girl, Lucy, leant into Oliver and whispered, "I don't like her, she's mean."

Oliver patted the girl's arm, glancing up at Emma with a smirk on his face, "She is, isn't she – to be honest, that's _why_ I like her."

Emma mimed vomiting, "You're adorable," Her voice was thick with sarcasm, and she raised her eyebrows at the boy, "Tell the kid to go away."

Lucy whined loudly, which was irritating, "But _I _want to play! Tell _her _to go!" She was clutching Oliver's arm tightly and her face was getting increasingly red, as if she was going to cry.

"Sorry, Lucy, you heard the woman," He stood up, then offered the girl a hand so that she could scramble to her feet, a pout on her chubby face, "I'll teach you once she's gone."

"Promise?" The girl offered Oliver her hand, her pinkie finger extended. The boy linked his own finger with hers and smiled,

"Pinkie promise; now, bugger off."

The little girl gasped, "I'm going to tell Jamie you swore at me! And that you've got a girl in your room!" She said, her voice accusing. Oliver rolled his eyes,

"Jamie already knows that Emma's here, and if you tell him that I swore I will tell him that you spent all of your lunch money on sweets last week."

"That's not as bad as having a _girlfriend_." The girl crossed her arms. Emma raised her eyebrows and glanced at Oliver, whose cheeks burned a furious red,

"Emma is my friend – just because _you_ aren't mature enough to have friends of the opposite gender without fancying them doesn't mean I'm not." He said all of this much too quickly. Emma smirked; he was bad at hiding things.

"Only lies have explanations, Oliver." She half whispered to him, holding back laughter.

"Shut up," He snapped, "Get out," He directed this to the girl, who left singing:

"Oliver fancies Emma," over and over in her tiny, sing song voice.

Oliver coughed loudly, then sat back down on the floor, "I do not."

Emma laughed at him, "Yeah, okay, and I don't have a huge crush on Jack Steadman."

"I have no idea who that is." Oliver admitted after a pause – his face had begun to return to its normal colour, though he still looked rather flustered.

"Did I not give you Bombay Bicycle Club?" Emma moved over to search through the pile of CDs she had leant her friend, the cases clacking against each other noisily, "Dammit," She glanced back at him where he sat on the floor, "How many of these have you got through so far?"

He shrugged, "I've only listened to three, I think. I don't like Eels, they're weird. Florence and the Machine are alright, though – that's in the stereo at the moment."

Emma sat on the floor opposite him, having turned on the CD player, crossing her legs and leaning her elbows on her knees, resting her head on her hands. The pair were silent for a few moments, the music playing quietly in the background, as Emma watched him. He was embarrassed, still, about the little girl – his body language had become more closed and he sat hugging his knees into him, hiding his face behind them – but happy that Emma wasn't mentioning it any further. He did look slightly worried, however.

"Are you deducing me?" He asked, moving his head so that it rested on top of his knees.

Emma raised her eyebrows, "Certainly not, that would be improper grammar – I am deducing _things about _you."

"I don't think I want to know what you're thinking."

"You probably don't." Emma sat up straight and stretched her arms out in front of her, yawning, "This song is so good."

Oliver glanced at the stereo for a moment, and then back to Emma, who had closed her eyes and begun humming along,

_'The dog days are over, the dog days are done / the horses are coming so you better run'_

"It's alright." He commented, "I'm not sure about the lyrics, though."

Emma opened her eyes and looked at Oliver pointedly, "You like Pitbull."

"Point taken," He laughed; Emma raised an eyebrow triumphantly, then glanced at her watch.

"It's almost nine – it takes me 65 minutes to get back to Mycroft's, I better get going." She stood up, pinching her nose and screwing up her eyes to fend off a yawn. Oliver followed her in standing, and the two of them made their way down the stairs to the front door.

"See you on Monday, then?" Oliver had his hands in his pockets and still looked rather uncomfortable.

"Not really a question – we have school, of course you'll see me then."

Oliver laughed, "I guess, unless you're off to another crime scene."

"Well, there is always that," Emma smirked at him, then turned and opened the door, "Bye, then."

Oliver looked offended, "Do I not get a hug?"

Emma turned back to face him, a puzzled look crossing her face, "Since when have we hugged? I've never hugged anyone before."

"You've _never _hugged _anyone_?" Oliver looked genuinely shocked, his eyebrows raised.

"I don't like to be touched."

"That's a bit weird."

Emma shrugged her shoulders, shoving her hands in the pockets of her coat, "You have your opinions, I have mine," She looked out through the doorway to see a long, black car pulling up on the street, "My uncle's people are here, I have to go – it's weird the way they always turn up on time; I suspect he's listening or something."

"That's maybe just a little unsettling," Oliver commented, glancing past her at the car, "Anyway, I'll see you later."

"Yeah, bye." She smiled at the boy, who grinned back, and then left, pulling the door shut behind her. Emma was beginning to like him, she thought, and she wasn't sure if she'd ever truly liked anyone before. Yes, he was a bit thick and slightly irritating, but he enjoyed her company – possibly the first person ever to do that – and more than that, he _actually fancied _her.

All of this was very new to Emma, but it made her grin as she climbed into the back of Mycroft's car regardless.

"You look happy," Anthea commented as Emma pulled on her seatbelt.

"You don't."

* * *

"And what time do you call this?"

Emma raised her eyebrows at Mycroft Holmes, who sat in an armchair by the living room window, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"Not even my mother asks me that anymore," Emma glanced at her watch, "And it's called 10 o'clock, Mike."

Her uncle sighed, "My name is _Mycroft_. Would it pain you to call me that?"

"Maybe – why risk it?" Emma smirked at him, "Anyway, you knew where I was."

"You never told me."

"Yeah, but you knew."

Mycroft nodded, "Admittedly, yes, but it would have been nice if you had let me know personally."

"I knew there was no point – it would be inefficient to travel all the way out here only to tell you something you already knew, and then have to take another hour drive back to Oliver's."

Mycroft tilted his head to the side, "You like that boy?"

Emma shrugged, "He's alright," She tried to hide the smile that threatened to break through onto her features, but Mycroft noticed.

"You care about him, don't you?" His face seemed to be daring her to lie to him, just so that he could rip her apart with deductions. Emma wasn't about to oblige him.

"Maybe I do – I don't see why that concerns you, though."

Mycroft stood, his palms smoothing the front of his suit slightly, and looked pointedly at her, "Caring is not an advantage, Emma; keep that in mind."

"You might be able to go through life feeling nothing for no one but not all of us are machines – some of us can experience emotion, Mycroft, and some of us _value _them."

"Emotions are an inconvenience that I choose not to be hindered by." Mycroft slipped his hands into his pockets, his voice flat and his face dark.

Emma's own voice was tainted with contempt, "Maybe if you chose to be held down by them you'd understand why caring about people is a good thing."

"How would you know what caring is," Mycroft asked, taking a step towards Emma, "When no one's ever cared about you?"

Emma just stared; her stomach twisting and making her feel sick. She felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over her head – the truth washing over every inch of her body; trickling down the back of her neck and making her shiver. Mycroft said nothing else; a triumphant smile etched on his face as he stared at her. Emma suddenly felt very young – all delusions of adulthood wiped from her mind – and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep tears from forming in her eyes because he was right. He was so right. The only person who ever cared about her she had run away from, and she doubted she would ever see her mother on good terms again, given that the last time they had spoken in person both of them had been screaming at each other.

Mycroft didn't seem to care that he had upset her; in fact he seemed rather pleased with himself. He smirked as she watched her leave the room at a half-run, and didn't follow her to apologise. Emma spent the rest of the evening in her room, praying for the next day to come quicker so that she could finally go home, back to 221B, where the people only _thought _horrible things about her, and didn't feel the need to vocalise them.

* * *

A month had passed since Susan had brought her ear box to 221B, and since then there had been no cases for Sherlock to solve (it had been the sister's husband all along, apparently – he had killed Katie and the man she had been having an affair with and sent their ears to Sarah, the other sister, as he blamed her for the breakdown of his marriage). This had led to a lot of sulking, possibly more sulking than Emma had seen before in her life, and she had a younger brother. Sherlock spent the majority of the time sitting in his armchair, a pout on his face, snapping at anyone who dared to speak to him.

Monday mornings were slow and lazy at 221B Baker Street at the best of times, but when there were no cases to solve they were even more so. Emma was always the first awake, rolling out of bed at half past five, spending at least an hour reading before Sherlock joined her for Mrs Hudson's morning tea at seven o'clock (though he still hadn't noticed that she was the one who left it – he insisted that it just happened no matter how many times she told him that, no, she had _seen_ Mrs Hudson put it there).

Emma was lying on the sofa with her legs dangling over the arm lazily when the doorbell rung at a quarter to eight – signalling that Oliver had arrived and she had to go to school. Sighing loudly and causing Sherlock to tut at the disturbance to the silence, she sat up and span around on the spot so that she could hop off of the seat, before picking up her backpack and unhooking her coat.

She shot a quick, "See you later," to Sherlock (he tutted again in response) before making her way down to meet her friend at the door, pulling her coat on and slinging her backpack over one shoulder.

"Hiya," Oliver grinned at her when she pulled the door open and stepped out into the cold February air. Emma shoved her hands into her pockets to protect them from the chill, directing a greeting at the boy, her breath turning to light vapour as it left her mouth. She was taken back momentarily to playing dragons with her mother when she was very young, but then was pulled out of her thoughts very quickly when they returned to Mycroft and what he had said to her but a few weeks ago.

'_No one's ever cared about you.'_

"Are you alright, you look pale?" Oliver looked concerned, and reached out to grab a hold of her arm before stopping himself. Emma shook her head slightly to clear it, sniffed and smiled at him,

"Yeah, I'm fine - I'm always pale, you idiot." She half punched him in the arm jokingly, "We need to get a move on or we'll be late."

They arrived at school with only a few minutes until the morning bell. Both had chemistry with Miss Cross first thing, Emma's favourite class. She was happy that she had it first on a Monday because, if it was anything else, she may not be able to drag herself out of bed.

However, as they entered the classroom, Emma found not Miss Cross, but Sebastian Moran reclining behind the desk in the same ill fitting, cheap suit he had worn the day he tripped over her outside of Moriarty's trial. Emma froze, causing Oliver to walk into her.

"Woah," He took a step back, "What's up?"

She turned back to the boy, who frowned at the sight of the look on her face, "He's not qualified to be wearing that suit." She said shortly, before making her way to her seat. Oliver paused where he stood; looking puzzled, before shooting her an odd look and sitting in his allocated seat – across the classroom from Emma.

She pulled her phone out of the pocket of her blazer, holding it in her lap under the table, and sent Oliver a text,

_Emma Stoneheart – 8:32 5/2/12 – His name is Sebastian Moran; works for Moriarty as an assassin_

After she pressed send she looked up at Oliver, who caught her eye and nodded, taking his own phone from his inside pocket and hiding it below the desk. A few moments later the screen of Emma's mobile lit up,

_Oliver Roberts – 8:33 5/2/12 – An assassin? Shit. And what's Moriarty?_

_Emma Stoneheart – 8:33 5/2/12 – Yep. Crown Jewels guy._

_Oliver Roberts – 8:34 5/2/12 – That guy who had tea at your house? What, is he following you?_

_Emma Stoneheart – 8:34 5/2/12 – Good deduction. That's one possibility, though I'm not sure I want to know why he is._

_Oliver Roberts – 8:35 5/2/12 – How are you typing so fast that is really unsettling_

_Emma Stoneheart – 8:36 5/2/12 – Is that really what you're planning to take from this conversation? Also there should have been some punctuation in that last text, I'm sure._

_Oliver Roberts – 8:37 5/2/12 – You're never happy, are you?_

_Emma Stoneheart – 8:37 5/2/12 – Thank you for the punctuation._

* * *

Sebastian Moran 'taught' their chemistry lessons for the next two weeks, leading many members of the class to speculate where on earth Miss Cross was. The majority of the students seemed to think that she was ill, or had been involved in some awful scandal, but Emma believed that something more sinister was afoot – she just prayed Moriarty and Moran had only kidnapped her and not murdered her, or tortured her in some horrible way. Oliver had waved off her theories, claiming that nothing serious could have happened to her or the school would have found a proper replacement, as opposed to a substitute; though she tried to explain that the school would have no idea if Miss Cross had been murdered by the consulting criminal and his sidekick.

_Oliver Roberts – 9:23 19/2/12 – She'll be back next week, alive and well, I guarantee it._

_Emma Stoneheart – 9:23 19/2/12 – Have you checked Moriarty's wall chart or something? How do you know when she'll be back?_

_Oliver Roberts – 9:25 19/2/12 – I was just trying to make you feel better, for God's sake._

A few seconds later Emma's phone vibrated again, and she opened a text from John (Sherlock never bothered to get in touch with her),

_John Watson – 9:25 19/2/12 – Got a case. Kidnapping. Should be back by seven – there're takeaway menus on the kitchen table._

_Emma Stoneheart – 9:26 19/2/12 – Received loud and clear, Captain._

_John Watson – 9:27 19/2/12 – Please stop calling me that._

Emma smirked and went to slip her phone back into her pocket; however it was swiped from her grasp by someone stood behind her.

"You can get this back at the end of the class." Moran's voice was much harsher than it had been when he had been playing Seb From The Jury on the day of the trial, and he did not smile like he had before. He put the phone in his blazer pocket as Emma raised an eyebrow at him,

"There are only two minutes and ten seconds left of this lesson," She smirked, "What an effective punishment."

Moran muttered something under his breath as he moved back to the front of the class, asking everyone to pack up their things ready to leave for next period. Emma looked over to Oliver, who was laughing at her comment to the assassin, and winked. As the rest of the class left, Oliver lagged behind, waiting for her to get her phone back and join him on his way to maths, however,

"Roberts, can you leave please?" Moran phrased it as a question; however his tone of voice told Oliver it was a command. Emma watched him leave with a feeling of dread in her stomach – this had obviously been Moran's plan all along; get her alone and then... what? Kidnap her? Kill her? She didn't know, but she wasn't feeling too excited about it. Moran brushed past her on his way to the teacher's desk, then turned to face her, a smirk on his face.

"So, can I have my phone back?" Emma asked nervously, "I have maths, so –"

"Oh, Annie, have you not noticed yet?" Moran asked; the use of her false identity made Emma flinch.

"Noticed what?" She asked, but then she realised – her vision started to blur and she was overcome with dizziness, "Oh, shit... what's going on?" She steadied herself on a desk, but knew she wouldn't stay awake for long. Glancing at her arm, Emma noticed a syringe hanging from the fabric of her coat – she had been drugged. She was going to collapse. Was she going to die? Her breathing started to quicken as she started to panic. Her legs gave way. The room was spinning so quickly that she felt sick.

As she fell to the floor, her head hit against the leg of the desk she had been leaning on. The sound of the impact rattled in her brain, echoing and swimming through her head. Blackness seemed to ripple from where it had hit, darkening the room around her. Emma's body began to shake, and her eyelids drooped.

And then she was asleep.

* * *

**A/N - oh wow the plot kicked in p fast at the end there. reviews would be fab as heck.**


	10. Chapter 10 - Shock Shock

**A/N - this chapter turned out a lot longer than i expected. and it turned out a bit different from what i planned, but i think this way will benefit the story in the long run. a lot of shit happens, and i hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

**Chapter 10 – Shock Shock**

_Well I enter a cave with my wrists sticking out / The soles of my feet worn down to a dusty mess / I'll stay numb to these accidents_

* * *

Emma's head felt numb and her thoughts swam slowly around her mind – disjointed and faded. She felt distant, as if her mind was independent from the heavy body which lay on the ground.

On the ground, why had she been sleeping there again?

She recalled Moran and the drugs after a moment, and remembered the reason why, albeit slowly. There was something there, in the back of her mind; she could feel something - something in her side. Pain? That seemed to be a possibility but she wasn't entirely sure. It seemed to become sharper and her brain started to kick in – thoughts becoming more coherent with every second that went by. She felt less distanced from her body – as if her thoughts were beginning to belong to her again – and felt a heavy kick in her side.

She was suddenly very awake, though her eyes would not open and she could not move her limbs; they were too heavy and she was too weak. She could hear her blood pumping and she felt as if someone was crushing her head in a vice. Another kick to her ribs made her groan and shift her body so that she was on her side, folded in the middle to protect herself. Her head was swimming and she felt nauseous, groaning as she screwed up her eyes before forcing them open, blinking against the light – so bright that she could see nothing but whiteness, and a silhouette, hazy in the glow.

The light spinning in her eyes only increased her queasiness, and Emma was overcome with a want to vomit. She felt a boot connect with her stomach, knocking the wind out of her and obliging her wish. Her assaulter stamped down on her side, fracturing ribs. Emma cried out and rolled forwards, her hair dragging in the pool of sick she had just left on the floor. Another stamp on the back of her knee brought tears to her eyes, sharp pain shooting through her leg.

"That's enough, Sebastian."

The voice was far away, and as smooth as silk. It had an undertone of boredom, the Irish accent as sinister as it had been when its owner had been sipping tea in Emma's front room. There were footsteps coming closer to her, but Emma refused to move; lying face down on the ground, her limbs pulled into her body, shaking violently.

"Wakey wakey, Annie," His voice was high and jovial, "Rise and shine!"

Strong arms grabbed her by the back of her coat and pulled her up from the floor, forcing her to face her captor. Jim Moriarty grinned as Sebastian Moran set Emma on her feet, and the girl whimpered.

"I've been looking forward to this," Moriarty slipped his hands into his pockets, taking a few steps towards Emma, his voice becoming more deflated, "Ever since that day I tested you – of course you knew that was what I was doing. Oh, I've been counting down the days..." He shrugged his shoulders, another grin plastered over his features, "It's like our second date! I'm glad your dad isn't here this time, though; given who I've invited it might've got a bit awkward..."

Panic began to set in – Emma's mind started working at triple speed, going over every possible situation she may be faced with in her head, trying to figure out solutions for each but to no avail – she couldn't do it, she wasn't like Sherlock, she wasn't as quick or as smart or as –

"Sebastian..." Moriarty drawled, and Emma felt the grip on the back of her coat release and saw Moran leave the room.

She quickly scanned her surroundings, trying to figure out where she could be. They had taken her to what looked to be a disused factory; chocolate production seemed the most likely use, due to the smell of stale cocoa that still hung in the air even after many years of closure. There was a large window on the far wall, through which daylight shone, creating a halo around the consulting criminal, who was silhouetted as he stepped forward. He was uncomfortably close, a smile still teasing his lips. When he spoke his voice was soft, and tainted with sarcasm,

"You're gonna love this, Annie, you know? I think this is the kind of show you'll really enjoy."

Emma recoiled as his breath brushed on her cheek, but her eyes hardened as she managed to speak, "It's _Emma._" Her voice was hoarse, which made her wonder how long she had been knocked out. From the achiness in her joints and the roughness of her throat she guessed around two days, but there was no way she could know for certain.

"Yeah," Moriarty drew his shoulders up, shrugging almost up to his ears, "But I like having our own little nicknames, don't you?" He spun away from her, throwing his arms out, "It's _fun _isn't it!?"

"That's one word for it." Emma's hands were shaking violently, and she flexed her fingers in an attempt to stop them as she raised her eyebrows at Moriarty.

A silence fell over the room as the two watched each other carefully, Moriarty rubbing his palms together seemingly absent-mindedly, until Moran returned, dragging something at his side. Moran's body obscured Emma's view, but she instantly recognised the voice that was squealing. She froze, her insides felt like ice.

That was her brother. Her ten year old brother.

The words spilled out of her mouth too quickly, her mouth tripping over them and stumbling to try to force them out fast enough, to stop them in time, "What are you doing? What are you going to do to him?" The two men ignored her, "_Stop it – STOP IT NOW_!"

She ran forward, throwing herself towards the boy, whose face was red and puffy but who was stood with his chest puffed out, _trying_ to be brave, _trying _to impress her. Just like he used to do when they were kids.

She was knocked back – a fist to her jaw – and dropped to the ground, her elbows smacking against the concrete floor. She yelped but scrambled back up to her feet, the pain in her jaw pulsating, her fractured ribs searing.

Throwing herself at Moran again, she heard her brother scream as he was thrown to the floor, discarded in favour of a new target. The assassin's hands gripped Emma's shoulders and threw her downwards, as he raised a knee which connected with her nose. She felt it break, the bones cracking loudly, and hot blood flowed from her face as she screamed and fell to the ground at Moran's feet. Her vision was blurring and darkening, her head heavy and throbbing. It took effort to raise her head, and she looked up at the three figures above her – Moriarty with his hands on her brother's shoulders, gripping them tightly, holding the boy up; her brother screaming, watching her with fear filled eyes, not understanding the world he'd been thrown into so quickly and without explanation; and Moran, grinning down at her for a second, then turning to the boy and taking something from his pocket.

Emma's head swam, her eyelids flickered.

She couldn't remember what happened next.

* * *

_"But I don't _want _a brother – I don't like children, they're stupid." Emma pouted and folded her arms across her chest, stamping her foot on the ground._

_The nurse laughed, sunny and airy, as if she was the very personification of a summer's day. She was blonde and pale skinned and looked like a princess, but princesses wore dresses so Emma decided she couldn't be one of those. Also princesses did their hair all fancy and curly like Sleeping Beauty but the nurse's hair was all messy and straggly. She didn't look like Sleeping Beauty, Emma thought._

_The nurse looked up at Daniel Stoneheart, "You've certainly got quite a girl there," She chuckled. Daniel looked uncomfortable for a moment,_

_"She's not mine." He answered shortly, glancing at Emma quickly before looking past the nurse at the door, "You said I could take her through?"_

_"I don't _want_ to go through."_

_"Shut up, Emma." Daniel snapped, placing a hand on her shoulder. Emma screeched and threw herself away from his grasp,_

_"DON'T TOUCH ME!" She yelled, lashing out to hit him back._

_The nurse looked rather disturbed, but continued in a shaky, but cheery, voice, "Are you sure she's ready to go though, sir? Your wife will need peace and quiet – I can arrange for someone to sit with –"_

_"That won't be necessary, thanks; she'll be quiet." Daniel finished by looking pointedly at the five year old, who squirmed,_

_"Mummy says she doesn't like peace and quiet," Emma said matter-of-factly, raising her eyebrows at Daniel._

_"No, Mummy's just never experienced anything else, thanks to you."_

_Emma tutted, but followed the pretty nurse and Daniel into the ward, where Mummy was sat up on a bed holding some blankets. Daniel kissed Mummy, which was gross, and started crying, but it was silly crying because he was happy. Emma wouldn't be happy if she had a baby, she would be very very angry because she would never have any money ever again. Mummy was always complaining about how much money Emma cost her._

_Mummy looked down at Emma, smiling in a way that Emma wasn't sure if she had seen her smiling before, and asked her, "Do you want to say hello to your little brother?"_

_"No, I would not." She crossed her arms and stuck her nose in the air. Mummy looked cross,_

_"Why do you always have to act like this? You spoil everything!"_

_"Casey..." Daniel said soothingly. Mummy was quiet after that, and turned her attention to the baby that Daniel was now holding._

_A good hour later, the baby was put in a weird plastic cot next to Mummy's bed, and Emma was able to scramble onto a chair to look over the top of it._

_The baby didn't look like her at all – he looked like mummy but with brown eyes like Daniel and a chubby face. Emma didn't look like any of her family – they were all tanned and brown haired and she was marble white with huge black curly hair. Emma hoped her brother was like her, secretly, because then they could go on adventures like the Famous Five only there were only two of them and there were five in the Famous Five, but she supposed that didn't matter too much. They would be different from Mummy and Daniel, and everyone would wonder how they had had such wonderful and clever children, being so boring and silly themselves._

_"I hope you have hair like mine," She whispered to the baby, her tiny fingers gripping the rim of the crib, "And you should be clever too – otherwise I won't like you. Stupid people like Mummy and Daniel are boring." The baby squealed at her in response, his hands reaching up to grab at her hair, which dangled down into the cot like dark, tangled curtains around her face, casting the boy in shadow, "We don't like boring people do we?"_

* * *

Screaming.

She was... Screaming? Why? She couldn't remember, but she knew it was bad.

Her hands were at her face, covering her mouth, shaking – shaking _so much_. She couldn't stop them, she couldn't stop anything. She was crying and screaming and shaking and her face was bleeding thick hot blood all over her, flowing from her broken nose. She was crouched on the ground and she knew she wouldn't be able to move, her body was frozen like a statue, but still shivering. Never stopping. Her mind on full alert.

Her leg was hurting – she couldn't move her knee. Was it broken? She didn't think so but she couldn't tell for certain. Her ribs felt worse too; her lungs burnt with every breath she took, sharp pain stinging in her side.

There were voices, but they sounded muffled, as if they were all underwater. Her vision was blurred by tears but she saw someone bend down – someone whose hands were stained red, and grab a hold of her coat collar.

Emma was pulled up, only to be slapped, hard and sharp, across the face. The world span and whirled around her. The person's fist connected with her cheekbone, bringing her back to the conversation – forcing her senses to kick in once more,

"Shhh," The hands on her collar were gone, replaced by softer, more comforting ones which pulled her into their body and began stroking her hair. Emma couldn't pull away – as soft as the hands were their owner was strong, and could change his mind at any moment and snap her neck. She didn't want to pull away. She stopped screaming. For a moment, for some awful twisted reason, she felt safe.

"I'm sorry, Annie, I really am," Jim whispered in her ear, his fingers caressing her hair slowly, "But I had to, you know, I didn't want to but I _had_ to." His arms unwrapped themselves from around her, but he retained his grip on her shoulders, a reminder that she couldn't escape – a reminder that he was still there. Jim's eyes bore into her own, his face a facade of regret and sadness, but his eyes telling a very different story, "It's that dad of yours, you see? He's always in my way and, well, I needed to stop him. I knew that one day he would need you, and I just – I need him to not get the help he needs, okay?"

Emma shook her head, sobbing.

"No no no," He wiped a tear from her face, his voice soft, "Don't cry, this isn't your fault – it's all me, I'm just planning ahead." His last statement was spoken with a small laugh, "You see, everyone has a glass case in their mind, where their demons are kept – oh, mine was shattered a long time ago, but that's another story. These demons can see out, watching and absorbing everything you see, everything you hear. They retain it all, every little thing they know that they can use against you – every bad thing someone has ever said about you; every time you felt sad – and they sit and wait. Certain things crack the glass, things so terrible and so horrible that the demons _beg_ to escape; they bang on the glass, '_let me out, let me out!'_ and chip away at their casing."

Jim stepped back from her and his facade dropped, his expression turning cold and his hand slipping into his pocket and producing a penknife – the same one he used to carve the apple back at 221B two months ago, "We're giving them a little help. We're making sure yours escape at the right time," He was closer now, closer than he had been before, but this time the knife was at her face, the cool metal pressed against her cheek, "You know, memory is the key – you implant something in someone's brain so terrible that they repress it so that, when they eventually remember," The knife pierced Emma's skin, ripping down her face, tracing the line of her cheekbone, spilling more of her blood out onto her features, "the impact is so much that the case explodes," The blade was pressed deeper. Emma screamed, but Jim continued, "and the demons, well," Jim took back the knife, flicking it closed and slipping it back into his pocket, "they take over... And they break you."

He ended in a whisper, just inches from Emma's face, and lingered for a moment before moving back and nodding at Moran. Before she could move she was forced to the ground, a needle in her arm, and she blacked out once more.

* * *

_"Mum, did you have to bring me here? You know I'd be fine if you left me home alone overnight." Emma raised her eyebrows at her mother, who sighed and looked pointedly at her husband, before rolling her eyes and facing her daughter._

_"Emma, I can't leave you at home because you are ten years old. You are a child. It's illegal for a start," She shook her head in an exasperated manner, "And you're always asking me if I actually have any friends, at least now I can show you."_

_"If they're your friends why haven't you spoken to them for seven years?"_

_"What?"_

_"When you got your invite you said 'Oh, it'll be so nice to see the old gang again.', because you hadn't seen them for seven years." Emma frowned, "I'm thirsty."_

_Casey sent Daniel to buy drinks, who took Emma's brother Andrew with him, leaving Emma and her mother to mingle. They spoke to several people who were clearly lying about the jobs that they possessed, but Emma kept her mouth shut just like Casey had told her to, but only because Emma had really wanted the new Harry Potter book and her mother had promised she would buy her it if she was good. _

_A man strolled up to Casey and began talking to her – he was tall and thin, with black hair and pale skin. He didn't even glance at Emma, who was rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of her feet, swinging her arms by her sides, annoyed because everyone was talking over the song they were playing on the sound system. The man was wearing a silly coat, but that was stupid because it was really warm in the function room, so Emma asked him,_

_"Are you leaving soon?"_

_Emma's mother tutted, "Don't be rude, Emma," She snapped, "Apologise to Sherlock."_

_"That's a silly name," Emma screwed up her face and laughed, "And anyway I was only asking because he's wearing such a big coat and it's _really _warm in here."_

_The man narrowed his eyes at the girl for a moment, and Emma felt uncomfortable – like he could read her mind. He looked as if he was about to say something to Casey when the conversation was interrupted by a short, dumpy woman with brown hair and a floaty dress. She had slightly pink cheeks like she was drunk,_

_"Casey, I haven't heard from you in _ages_, darling!" She pulled Emma's mother into a hug, and Emma pulled a face. This was boring._

_"Well, you know, it was a bit hard to stay in touch after the move," Casey laughed, pulling back from the short woman, "We can't come back an visit as much as we'd like to." She gestured over her shoulder to the general area of the bar, where Daniel and Andrew had gone._

_"Oh, you'll have to tell me all about Scotland – but first!" The woman giggled and thrust her left hand out to Casey, wiggling her fingers to show off a silver ring on her third finger. The two women squealed happily, whilst Emma and the man with the silly name looked rather uncomfortable. _

_After Emma got a good look at the ring, though, she knew the short woman was lying, and decided that she had had enough of being quiet (she could just get her grandma to buy her the book anyway)._

_"But that ring's plastic," Emma pointed to it, "You're lying. Why do so many people lie at these things?" She looked up at her mother for an answer, but only received an angry glare. Emma raised her eyebrows and said defensively, "But it _is_! You got them in those Christmas crackers you made us have last year even though they were boring and didn't have jokes. Grandma got the ring but it was too big for her finger." Emma folded her arms across her chest._

_Casey started apologising profusely to the short woman, but kept shooting angry looks at Emma, who only smiled back. She was happy with herself that she had done something to alleviate the boredom, and the silly-named man seemed happy too. He smirked at Emma, before turning and walking away through the crowd and out of the door._

_Emma knew he was planning to leave soon._

* * *

"Sherlock!"

Emma could hear someone shouting somewhere above her. Her head throbbed and her side ached. She groaned, wanting them to be quiet so that she could go back to sleep – she was so tired, so _very _tired – but they insisted on the shouting. They were shaking her shoulders now, which hurt. She tried to brush them away with her arm, but they only continued.

"Emma, wake up," It was John – what was he doing here? – he was shouting, he sounded upset, "Wake up – _SHERLOCK_ – Emma, for fuck's sake, open your eyes!"

Emma groaned, forcing her eyes open. She was lying on the ground again in the same factory as before, but the window on the far wall had been covered and it was dark, so she wasn't as disorientated as before, when the light had made her head spin. John was still shaking her shoulders, so she put a hand on his and pulled it off of her. Emma tried to sit up, but her ribs stung and she was forced to stay down – the pain searing in her side like it was on fire.

"What – What's happening?" She asked, her voice hoarse, but John wasn't listening, he was still shouting for Sherlock, "John, what's going on?"

He looked down at her, but his face told her that he didn't know.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock sounded irritated, as if he had been pulled away from something important, "Oh," A note of realisation, but he wasn't moving toward Emma, he was going in the opposite direction, towards some shape in the corner of the room. Three shapes.

"What – where are you going?" John got to his feet, facing the detective, who was crouched by the shapes in the corner of the room. Sherlock did not answer him, only got to his feet quickly, and made his way over to where Emma lay, unable to move, and knelt down next to her,

"Was he here?" He asked – his voice held a note of something odd. Sympathy? Emma frowned, and Sherlock shook his head, "Moriarty, was he here?"

Emma recoiled at the use of his name, to her own surprise, but nodded quickly.

Sherlock started at her for a moment, looking grave. There was a silence as John examined the things in the corner of the room, before Sherlock placed a hand on Emma's shoulder and said in a soft voice,

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what? What's _happened_ I don't – I don't remember!" Emma felt herself beginning to cry. She _knew_, though. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew the answer long before anyone told her what had happened there.

Sherlock wasn't listening to her; he was facing John, his hand still on her shoulder, "Get Lestrade."

No one told her what happened until she was in a hospital bed, her ribs bound in several layers of bandages and the wound on her face stitched up. Greg was the one who said it, his face grey and sombre, and though she knew it was coming Emma was still not prepared to hear it.

Greg wrung his hands as he spoke. Sherlock was stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, his face blank. John was in the chair by her bed, holding her hand – his grip tightened slightly as Lestrade told her the news.

"I'm very sorry to have to say this," He paused, prolonging the wait, raising the tension in the room, "but... Emma, your family are dead – we can't say anything for certain yet, but it looks as if they were murdered by the same person who, uh, attacked you."

Emma had expected to break down when he said it. She had expected to cry or to vomit or to lash out and attack someone. Instead she just nodded, her insides knotted, her thoughts becoming fuzzy like an old analogue television set when it couldn't pick up a signal. Greg sent her a single nod back, before turning to leave, muttering something about finalising a kidnapping case to Sherlock, who made a grunt of recognition, before he left.

A nurse, who had been stood in the corner of the room, and who looked solemn stepped forward, her hands linked behind her back. She addressed John, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask anyone who isn't a relative to leave." She looked genuinely apologetic, and John nodded at her,

"Okay," He directed his attention back to Emma, as if he was going to say something, but just shook his head and let go of her hand, before standing and leaving the room, shooting a glance at Sherlock as he left.

The nurse left Emma and Sherlock alone, though neither said anything. Sherlock moved over to the chair by her bed, but sat without looking at her, as if he couldn't bring himself to.

Emma remembered the dream she had had after the attack, about the university reunion almost six years ago, the day she had realised who Sherlock was. Emma wondered if he had known John back then, if he had known anybody that he knew now.

"Do you remember the day we met?" She asked him. Sherlock looked up at her, looking as puzzled as it seemed possible for him to look, "With that woman and her fake engagement ring?"

Sherlock paused, his eyes looking up to the right – searching his mind palace – before shaking his head, "I must have deleted it."

"You _deleted _me?" Emma supposed that she should have been hurt, but found herself laughing – her ribs aching.

Sherlock shrugged, "There's only so much room up here," He pointed at his head, "Need to keep room for the important things."

Emma smiled at him, "As long as you don't delete me again."

Sherlock directed his gaze to the doorway, "No," He didn't seem to be entirely paying attention anymore, "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good."

He was still gazing out of the door, "I have to go – that kidnapping case... The kids were found in the same factory you were," He stood up, then turned back to look back at her, "Text John if you need anything."

Emma nodded at him, before he left the hospital. A few moments later the nurse returned, looking uncomfortable to have to interrupt Emma after hearing the news of her family's death.

"Um, someone just left this at the front desk for you – said their name was James?" She handed her a brown package, sealed with red wax.

"Thank you?" Emma was unsure, but took the package anyway. It was soft, and rustled when she moved it. She broke the seal and opened it, pouring the contents onto her bed in front of her.

Straw spilled out onto the sheets, along with something small and dark. Emma fished it out of the straw, holding it up to the light so that she could inspect it. It was a wolf, intricately carved from a dark wood, baring its teeth with its claws exposed.

The nurse looked startled, "I'll get someone to clear this up right away, just give me a –"

"That won't be necessary, thank you." Emma held up a hand to wave the nurse away, and set about scooping the straw back into the envelope. She set the wolf on the bedside table, and turned the envelope over in her hands, stopping as she noticed writing in tiny, capitalised letters in the top corner of the paper. She squinted to read it, and as she did she felt a fresh wave of fear wash over her, making her shiver and drop the envelope on the floor.

_'WHO'S AFRAID OF THE BIG, BAD WOLF?'_

* * *

**A/N - omg, right?**

**can i get a review? please?**


End file.
